I slowly turn my head towards Trathen. My gaze is calm, piercing, almost mocking. It's the kind of look you give to someone who has made a fool of themselves. A look that says without a word: See? The mole... it wasn't me.
Trathen immediately looks away. His face freezes, his pupils fixed on the empty ground. Embarrassed. Humiliated. Maybe even ashamed.
But I understand him. Trathen is not scum. He was simply afraid. He was probably conducting his own investigations in the shadows. He had sensed something rotten within our ranks... and I had become his number one suspect. Too brilliant, too fast, too efficient. My meteoric rise blinded him. And now that he sees the truth, he must hate himself a little. Too bad. He had instinct. Not precision, but instinct.
Maybe I'm not the mole today... I thought, looking at him one last time, but maybe I'll be the mole tomorrow, Trathen.
Claremont, still as cold as ever, declares in a clear voice:
— Very well. The session is adjourned. You may go home.
Men seize the 13 moles, handcuff them, and isolate them. They no longer have names, only interrogation numbers.
Claremont fixes them for a moment with a bitter smile:
— As for you... we're going to have a lot of fun this Sunday.
A shiver runs down the traitors' spines. Cold sweats, cut breaths. Me? I laugh. Softly. Just a little amused breath. The boss never jokes.
We separate. I walk, hands in my pockets. I'm in the street, night has fallen, streetlights cast a pale yellow light on the wet asphalt. Tomorrow is Sunday. A day of rest, supposedly. Except for those called the "Sunday guards," those Claremont reserves for very special days.
I was supposed to be a VIP.
Tch. Whatever. At least it gives me a day to breathe.
I cross an alley, lost in my thoughts. Trathen comes back to my mind. That guy... he's not useless. Claremont's guards are worthy of him. They fight for him. They search, they protect. The problem... is me.
My hellish talent stifles them.
They are like flames under a sky without night. Nonexistent against me. All their exploits are devoured by mine. It's unfair.
A smile crosses my face.
What can I say? Life is unfair.
I stop to cross an intersection. A hand gently touches my shoulder.
— Excuse me.
I turn around, surprised.
Trathen.
He stands there, drawn features, almost embarrassed. Next to him, a girl. I know her: Léya. A southern guard like him. Long blonde hair, clear blue eyes, pale skin. A cold beauty, almost unreal. Even in uniform, she radiates something... dangerously seductive.
Trathen looks at me, then lowers his head a little:
— Earlier... I accused you of something you didn't do. I'm really sorry. It's because I was doing my own research. I was sure there was a mole among us... and given your rise, I thought that...
— Trathen. — I cut him off calmly. — It's okay. I forgive you.
He raises his eyes, stunned.
— What?!
Léya widens her eyes, mouth slightly open.
I look at them calmly.
Anyway, I had already considered this scenario. Everything, except that he would come to apologize. He's a man of peace. He must have thought I would hate him to death.
— You understood me well.
Trathen, moved:
— Wow... I really thought you'd be mad at me!
What did I tell you?
— Anyway. — I turn around. — I have to go.
But he stops me again:
— Wait! I'd like to invite you for a drink. So we can forget all that. I'm a bit embarrassed, you see...
— I refuse.
He widens his eyes. Turns abruptly, head down, mumbling in a comically desperate tone:
— You're really mean, Natsaaaaa...
Léya approaches too, arms crossed:
— You know it's rude to refuse such a sincere invitation?
I sigh. That's all I needed... What do I care about politeness? Although...
— Fine... I accept.
Trathen straightens up, invisible tears dried by joy:
— Really?! So cool!!!
I look at the sky hoping it won't last too long.
Léya stares at me for a moment, then smiles.
A real smile. Not a trick, not manipulation. Just a smile.
And I don't know why, but it's that smile that puts me most on guard.
The bar wasn't very big, but the atmosphere was warm. Laughter rose between the dark wooden walls, and the smell of grilled meat floated in the air.
Around a table, Trathen and Léya burst out laughing for no reason, two glasses in hand. Me? I was busy with my pork skewers. The meat was good, so I took a second one without paying them any attention.
Trathen, catching his breath, suddenly threw at me:
— Hey, how old are you, Natsa?
I raised an eyebrow, chewing calmly.
— 20 years old.
Trathen choked on his drink.
— What? Seriously?! I'm 38, you're a kid actually!
Léya, laughing, added:
— At first, we thought you were an old man with growth problems or a weird disease... You look so adult that we were totally wrong.
She stole one of my skewers without any shame and bit into it with satisfaction.
— I'm 34.
I looked at them, these two "old folks," having fun like children. Their carefreeness made me smile softly. They laughed, spoke loudly, as if they had never met death.
Trathen winked at me.
— Hey, Natsa! Why aren't you drinking anything?
— I don't feel like drinking...
Léya teased me:
— Don't be shy, come on, tell the waiter what you want to drink.
Since they insist...
— Okay. A cocktail.
Trathen shook his head, mock-outraged.
— Refused! We're here to seal our friendship, buddy. Take something that gets you drunk, it's on me.
...Who said you had to get drunk to be friends? Whatever.
— Make it sake.
— Excellent choice! exclaimed Léya.
The waiter brought the glasses. We raised them together, in a fine gesture:
— To our new friendship!
I couldn't help but smile. Just a little.
Elsewhere, in the darkness of a forgotten place...
The 13 traitors were tied to rusty metal chairs, in a room lit by a single hanging bulb. It flickered slightly, creating grotesque shadows on their faces marked by fear.
The floor was covered with dark stains. It wasn't water. The metallic smell was suffocating. Claremont watched silently, arms crossed. Behind him, hooded figures awaited his orders.
One of the moles, face bruised, was breathing in gasps. Another screamed at the slightest approach of the tools. They were not being interrogated. No. It was something else. More... systematic.
The masks moved.
A man was held by two assistants while a third slowly pushed needles under his nails, one by one. Each scream echoed in the room, a sinister music of a hellish Sunday.
Another had his arms stretched by chains, and corrosive liquid was poured on his skin. He screamed, begged, cursed, but nothing stopped the process.
One of them, a young man with an arrogant air, tried to play tough. They tied him naked on a metal table and wrapped him in a blanket soaked with cold water before electrocuting him in waves. When he fainted, they woke him with a bucket of water and started again.
Claremont watched them calmly. Impassive.
Then, finally, one of them gave in. His face was slashed, one eye almost hanging out of its socket. He coughed blood, his gaze empty.
— The... The Roskarov...
Silence. Then Claremont gave a thin smile.