Chapter 10 – Observations

  In a slightly damp room with poor lighting that smelled faintly of cheap detergent and old humidity, the tiled floor was still wet, reflecting the weak yellow light in uneven streaks. In one of the less obvious corners, a dark bloodstain had merged with peeling paint, as though the wall itself had tried and failed to swallow it.

  Two people lay on the ground, unmoving.

  At that moment, the door opened.

  As several figures stepped inside, the contrast became painfully evident — the corridor outside was luxuriously furnished, lined with polished wood panels, thick carpets, and gilded wall lamps. It was a jarring opposition to the neglected, almost forgotten room within.

  The first to enter stood tall and imposing. His presence alone seemed to settle the air. He paused briefly at the threshold before advancing with measured elegance, polished shoes making almost no sound against the damp floor. Soon, he reached one of the bodies.

  He adjusted his hat slightly. His gaze, sharp behind thin-framed glasses, lowered as he crouched with controlled precision.

  “Respiration… circulation…”

  Don Shapiro calmly checked the man’s vital signs, his movements efficient and unhurried, as if this were no more than routine bookkeeping.

  By then, two of his men had followed him inside.

  “He is still breathing. What about the other?”

  His voice echoed softly in the confined space, smooth and controlled.

  “He is alive as well. It appears they suffered some kind of mental shock.”

  The reply came loudly — yet not from either of the men standing behind him.

  Though the voice filled the room clearly, its origin was impossible to pinpoint. It did not echo. It did not reverberate. It simply existed in the air, as if spoken from every corner at once.

  None of the men present showed surprise.

  “How did it happen?” Don Shapiro asked.

  A brief pause followed, heavy but not tense.

  “I was following the boy as you instructed. A group of Third attacked him at the outskirts of our territory. I intended to intervene… but you ordered me not to display these abilities outside. And this state is slow to remove.”

  The voice carried a faint slur, as if its owner were perpetually intoxicated — not merely with alcohol, but with something more corrosive.

  Don Shapiro remained silent, absorbing every word.

  “They began behaving strangely. He didn’t even touch them. They froze… then collapsed. It was only after he left that I approached.”

  “So he is either a Beyonder… or in possession of an artefact,” Don Shapiro mused quietly, adjusting his cufflinks. “Troublesome.”

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  “What should we do, Boss?” one of the men behind him asked.

  “He has our money,” Don Shapiro replied evenly. “And he is to repay it in one month. I do not lose in a deal.”

  He straightened slowly.

  “We will address this trouble in a month’s time.”

  A moment later, the air in the room shifted almost imperceptibly — as though something had slid into place where there had been empty space before.

  Another man now stood among them.

  He was dressed formally — grey trousers and a blue buttoned shirt — both marred by palm-sized oily stains that looked as though they had soaked through the fabric from within. A foul, nauseating odor emanated from him, thick and greasy, clinging to the throat and settling in the lungs.

  “F*ck. I liked this shirt.”

  He examined himself under the dim light, swaying slightly, his movements loose and unbalanced.

  The others did not react to his sudden presence. They merely shifted back, almost instinctively, as the smell reached them.

  “Only you can remain de marbre when I smell like this,” the man said with a crooked grin. “You truly are the best, Boss.”

  His unfocused gaze drifted toward the others.

  “And what are you looking at?”

  “Enough, Seven,” Don Shapiro said calmly.

  The hostility faded as quickly as it had risen.

  “Ten, take him to a room. Eleven, bring him a girl. By morning, the medicine’s effect will have worn off.”

  Don Shapiro rose to his full height and adjusted his clothes with quiet dignity as his men began to move.

  Soon enough, Ten leveraged Seven’s arm over his shoulder and helped him along the corridor.

  The disgust was difficult to ignore. It was not merely the smell. It was a sensation that seemed to crawl beneath the skin — a reaction born from something deeper than instinct, as if the mind itself rejected what stood beside him.

  The two men walked in silence.

  Ten’s expression carried doubt, restrained but unmistakable. Seven’s eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, held the drifting haze of a drunkard — yet within that fog, now and then, a flicker of sharp clarity surfaced before sinking again.

  They arrived before a particular door at the end of the corridor, one more lavish than the rest.

  As Ten opened it, he could no longer contain the question that had lingered at the tip of his tongue.

  “What really happened?” Ten asked quietly.

  He adjusted Seven’s weight on his shoulder.

  “We both know the kind of person you are. For you not to intervene at all… to remain hidden… there had to be more than a delay inconvenience.”

  His voice lowered.

  “There had to be something else.”

  A disturbing silence followed, broken only by their footsteps and the soft creak of the door swinging wider.

  Seven seemed to muse. His eyes narrowed slightly under the chandelier’s glow.

  “I just got scared,” the drunken man answered honestly. “I couldn’t understand why I stayed away.”

  A flicker of understanding crossed Ten’s face.

  “It’s the same sensation you sometimes have when facing the Boss?” Ten pressed carefully, as if confirming a suspicion he was not sure he wanted validated.

  Seven took longer than usual to respond.

  “It was similar… yet different.”

  He leaned his head back slightly, thinking.

  “When we face the Boss, it feels like being watched by an apex predator. Something patient. Something that knows it will win.”

  He paused.

  “But tonight… I felt like prey being stared at by two beasts.”

  The words lingered in the air.

  Without warning, Seven pushed Ten away with surprising force and staggered toward the bed, collapsing onto it on his back.

  The bedroom was lush and excessive. A chandelier hung from a ceiling made of rare polished wood. Heavy curtains framed tall windows. The mattress was thick, the sheets immaculate.

  Somehow, a cigarette had appeared between Seven’s lips. It was unclear when he had placed it there.

  He began removing his stained clothes, tossing them carelessly onto the floor, leaving faint oily marks on the fabric beneath.

  Ten quietly exited the room.

  He was just in time to see Eleven leading a tall, light-skinned young woman with an hourglass figure toward the suite.

  Her red spaghetti-strap dress clung closely to her body, exposing a pair of fair legs that contrasted with the deep carpet. Her high heels made soft, measured clicks as she walked forward with practiced ease.

  Her expression was calm. Detached.

  As Ten watched her disappear behind the door, a smirk formed on his lips when muted, suggestive sounds began to seep through the walls.

  “Another one wasted,” he muttered to himself.

  He lit his cigarette, inhaling deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs longer than necessary before exhaling slowly toward the ceiling.

  “This job is becoming more difficult…”

  He hesitated.

  “Should I quit?”

  For a brief moment, doubt flickered in his eyes.

  Then the image of a young man surfaced in his mind.

  And slowly… a plan began to form.

  Alternative title: Foul play