Rule of the game 


The man stood in the shadows. Behind him, one of the villa's side doors had been left open. A light draft stirred the curtain.

— I thought there were no bedtime rules here — I said softly, straightening my posture. — Or did I misunderstand the term "guest status"?

— Guest? — he repeated the word as if tasting it. — It's not common to call an ethics inspector that. But if it makes you more comfortable, I'll accept it.

— It's just… more accurate. Given the circumstances. I haven't even received the files yet, but I've already been moved from my official room into your private house, gifted a wardrobe, a full wine cellar, and tailored clothes. Did you predict what I would wear?

Aslan stepped closer slowly. His movements were calm, but there was something too deliberate in them. Like a chess move planned in advance.

— We don't like chaos, Miss Mervaux. Here, everything is exactly where it's supposed to be. You are no exception.

— Except for the files — I noted, almost playfully, though tense inside. — They seem to always be somewhere other than where they should be.

— The files will arrive in the morning. Believe it or not, we respect that you're here to work. And we won't hinder your task.

— Not hinder — I said softly. — Just… direct. Subtly. Ahead of time. As if you already know what question I'll ask next.

Aslan's gaze swept over me. There was nothing overtly threatening in it—just attention. The kind of attention that makes you unsure whether it's curiosity or a psychological dissection.

— It's not that we know — he said quietly. — You're predictable.

That was the first real jab. Subtle. Cold. Almost polite.

— Predictability only depends on the data. The question is, who owns the system that provides the data — I replied, turning back toward the piano, running my fingers along the lid. — The psychiatric records, the therapy logs… You write them. You approve them. But who watches the one who designed the whole thing?

— You do.

It was the first time he said it like that. Not "miss," not "guest," not a neutral title. Just you. As if from now on, we weren't playing the host-visitor game anymore.

— Yes — I said. — Me. But first, I need to understand the rules. And this institution… it runs by one rule only: to hide what doesn't fit the picture. And that's the exact opposite of my job.

Aslan didn't answer immediately. Then he stepped to the side, walked to a bar cabinet, and with perfect motion poured a deep amber liquid into two glasses.

He held one out to me.

— Since you're already awake.

I took it. Not because I wanted to. Because I wanted to see what would happen if I accepted.

We clinked glasses. Soundlessly.

— You know — he finally said — most people come here without understanding why they need to be here, or what they're supposed to look for. They grasp our intentions and appreciate our efforts for excellence. But you… you question even the unquestionable. Because you don't believe anything can work smoothly without risk. It's as if you're hunting for a flaw just to prove something to yourself.

The glass froze in my hand.

That couldn't be a coincidence. It was too targeted.

— And if I am? — I asked quietly.

— Then all I can say is: happy hunting, Miss Mervaux.

Then he nodded and walked out of the room. He didn't rush. Didn't look back.

I felt it: something had just begun. A game that had been in motion long before — I'd just been the only one unaware of it.

Aslan still held his glass when he spoke again.

— If you sense any discomfort, please don't see it as obstruction. You came here to work, and I have no intention of standing in your way. I do my job, you do yours. The welcome… is merely hospitality.

His gaze remained fixed on my face the entire time. There was no smile, no warmth — just that geometric precision of attention that makes you feel like you're not in a conversation, but an exam.

— I appreciate the hospitality — I said slowly. — But when something is too precise, too accommodating… it's not hospitality. It's a system.

Aslan's lips tightened for a moment, but he didn't reply. He set his glass back on the tray.

— Good night, Miss Mervaux — he said at last, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the half-light of the villa.