After I was done eating, I just sat there staring up at the ceiling. The white plaster above me seemed to mock me in its sheer sterility. I felt trapped. My head ached, and my thoughts were muddled. The familiar buzz of the house seemed muted, almost as if the place was intentionally quiet—calm. Too calm for comfort.
The door opened again, and I blinked at the sudden intrusion. The butler, carrying an air of efficiency, walked in, speaking in a rapid foreign tongue. I could tell from his stiff posture and the way he addressed the man behind him that this wasn't the usual servant-master relationship I was used to seeing in the movies. They were talking to each other in Russian, the words flowing easily between them as if they had been doing this for years. My inability to understand the language only made the whole experience feel even more alien.