The fever broke, but the silence that returned was different.
It was no longer just empty. It was… charged. Rossie had recovered in the cold, liquid-silk sheets of her bedroom, alone. The damp cloth and the glass of water were gone, as was any trace that he had ever been there.
For two days, she was left in that suffocating solitude. She began to wonder if she had hallucinated the entire thing. Had he really touched her forehead? Had she really, pathetically, leaned into her captor's touch?
The shame of that memory was a colder, more permanent chill than the fever.
When she was finally strong enough to resume her "role," she returned to the chaise lounge. Maher was at his desk, just as he always was. He did not look up. He did not ask about her health. The distance was back, absolute and impassive.
She sat, her hands clenched, her mind replaying that one second of contact. It had become a focal point, a tiny, dangerous ember of hope in the vast, cold darkness.
After an hour of silence, the scratch-scratch-scratch of his pen stopped.
She tensed. He never stopped this early.
"You are weak," he said, not looking at her.
Rossie's head snapped up.
"You are human," he continued, his voice a flat, analytical monotone. "You are fragile. You broke. Your fever, your emotional collapse… it is a flaw in the asset."
"I... I'm sorry to be such a disappointment," Rossie spat, her old anger a welcome, familiar defense against the angst of her hope.
"Do not mistake an analysis for an insult," he said, finally lifting his gaze. His silver eyes were clear and sharp. "It is a tactical problem. Your weakness is a liability. It invites… attention."
He stood. "And what is mine," he said, his voice dropping, "is not allowed to be a liability. This changes tonight."
"What are you talking about?"
He walked toward her. She flinched, but he didn't stop. He walked past her, toward the gallery—the room filled with paintings of impossible landscapes.
"Your education has been neglected," he said, his back to her. "You are ignorant. You weep because you see the results of my contracts, but you have no understanding of the world that makes them necessary. You will no longer be ignorant."
He stopped in front of a vast painting. It depicted a dark, swirling fog.
"Come."
It was a command. She did not move.
He turned his head. "Rossie. Now."
She rose on trembling legs and followed. She was his prisoner. She had no choice. She stood beside him, her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the oil painting.
"What is this?" she asked.
"A door."
He reached out—his gloved hand—and touched the painted fog. The oil rippled, as if the canvas had become water. The fog swirled, not with paint, but with real, tangible mist.
"You are afraid of the shadows in my penthouse," he said, his voice a low murmur. "It is time you see the shadows of the world you came from."
He grabbed her upper arm. His grip was steel. "You will stay by my side. You will not speak. And you will not faint."
Before she could scream, he pulled her through the painting.
The sensation was a nightmare. It was not a step; it was a fall. It was cold, breathless, and silent. She felt her body turn inside out and reassemble.
She stumbled out onto... pavement.
She gasped, sucking in air that was real. It was humid, thick, and sharp. It smelled of clove cigarettes, diesel fumes, jasmine, and something else—something ancient, metallic, and hot, like ozone and old blood.
She looked up. Her breath hitched.
Above her, a hundred feet up, was a colossal, tangled river of concrete and steel. Cars and trucks roared across it, their headlights a blur, their sound a distant, muted rumble.
She knew exactly where she was. She was under the Semanggi Interchange.
But it was wrong. It was not the dark, grassy, empty space she knew from passing by.
This place was alive.
A market, a pasar, was thriving in the supernatural shadow of the interchange. It was lit by a thousand red paper lanterns that floated in the air, bobbing gently like anglerfish lures. Stalls made of dark, gnarled wood and carved bone were crammed between the massive concrete support pillars.
And the patrons.
Rossie's mind stuttered.
A woman in a pristine, white kebaya with long, black hair to her ankles—a Kuntilanak—was not screaming, but calmly bartering, selling charms made of woven human hair. A massive, hulking creature covered in dark fur, smelling of singed earth—a Genderuwo—was not a monster in the jungle, but a bodyguard, standing behind a nervous-looking human in a business suit.
Creatures of smoke and fire—Djinn—tended stalls that sold not goods, but concepts. She watched one barter with a young, desperate-looking college student, trading a small, glowing bottle (labeled 'Luck: Examination') for a clear bottle that seemed to contain the boy's sleep for a month.
This was the Pasar Gaib. The Unseen Market.
"This," Maher's voice was low in her ear, making her jump, "is the real Jakarta, Rossie. The real economy."
She was terrified. The beings here felt her. They glanced at her, their eyes—too many, or too few, or glowing with inner fire—sliding over her. She was the only one who looked... normal. She was a piece of raw, human meat in a den of ancient predators.
Instinctively, she grabbed Maher's arm, hiding behind him.
His reaction was immediate and cruel. He seized her wrist and tore it from his coat, pushing her forward, back into the open.
"Rule one," he hissed, his voice lethal. "Do not ever show fear. Fear is a currency here. It is an invitation. You are telling them you are weak, and you are making me look weak by association. Stand up straight."
She was shaking, exposed, but she forced herself to stand, her hands clenched at her sides.
"Good," he approved, his voice cold. "Now, watch."
He guided her—one hand hovering at her back, not touching, but directing—through the crowd. They parted for him. They bowed to him. Here, he was not just a creditor. He was a King.
He stopped her in front of a stall run by an old, wizened woman who seemed to be part Djinn, her eyes flickering with a small, internal blue flame. The stall was covered in jewelry.
"Maher Xander," the old woman rasped, her voice like grinding stones. "You honor us. You, who are so rarely a buyer."
"I am not buying, Nenek," Maher replied, his voice smooth. "I am equipping."
His eyes scanned the table, past the glowing rubies and the whispering pearls. He pointed to a simple, unadorned bracelet. It looked like it was made of dull, blackened iron.
"That one," he said.
The old woman cackled. "An interesting choice for such a... pretty... companion. It has no sparkle. It has no power."
"It has a purpose," Maher corrected. He picked it up. He did not ask for a price. He simply took it.
He turned to Rossie. "Your wrist."
She hesitated.
"Your wrist."
She held out her trembling arm. He clasped the cold, heavy iron around her skin. It was not a gift. It was a shackle.
"What... what is this?" she whispered.
"This," Maher said, his voice for her alone, "is a mute. You reek of humanity. Your fear, your hope, your... life... it is a stench to them. A perfume. It makes them hungry. This... dampens the scent. It will make you less... appetizing."
He was not protecting her. He was neutering her. He was putting a tag on his property.
"The lesson for tonight is simple, Rossie," he said, turning to lead her back through the crowd. "Your world—the world of skyscrapers, stock markets, and lattes in Senopati—is a lie. It is a thin, fragile crust of concrete over this. This is the truth. This is the engine. This is where the real business is done."
He gestured to a stall where a man was joyfully trading his own shadow for a bag of gold that would be dust by morning.
"Your ancestor came to a place like this," Maher said, his voice devoid of all emotion. "This is where your 'prosperity' was born. You are not a human who was stolen by a monster, Rossie. You are a product of this world. You just never knew it."
He didn't pull her through the "door" this time. He simply led her away from the market, and the world dissolved. The smells, the sounds, the light... they just faded, and she was standing in the gallery once more, the scent of jasmine and ozone replaced by the dead, sterile air of the penthouse.
She was leaning against the wall, her heart hammering, the heavy iron bracelet cold on her wrist.
Maher was already at the archway, his back to her, dismissing her.
"From now on," he said, "your education continues. What is mine must be able to defend itself. And you, Rossie, are hopelessly, pathetically ignorant."