He finds the picture of the drawing—black and white scribbles forming my angry face. It's his most detailed portrait of me, finished five years ago. "Your favorite."
"Wow, congratulation. How much–"
Holding his head high, he beams, and says, "Two thousand dollar."
"That much!"
"I didn't want to sell it but the guy insisted. He told me to name my price. I thought he was joking so I set a ridiculous price at two k but he transferred the money immediately. I'll have to ship it to New York city tomorrow."
"That's... good. Sold four pieces now?"
"Yep. I'll make more."
"This is great. Your art has improved. With enough pieces, maybe we can try to put it in the gallery or–"
"I don't know about that. I'm not ready."
He's still as reluctant to showcase his art as I am shy about being his model. The car stops, and Wei is already standing next to Min-Jun's side.
"Shit! You told him!" Min-Jun grips the door, holding it closed as Wei tries to open it. I leave the boys to their usual battle and head to the front door.
###
The week resumes its usual rhythm. Dr. McCoy drones on about loops in AI execution code, but my mind drifts.
Why am I not curious about him? Normally, when I'm drawn to someone, I want to know everything—who they are, how they think, what they want. But with Mr. Silence, it's different. I don't want to understand him. I just want to be near him.
It's not sex. That's what doesn't make sense. Why do I want him more than I want to know him?
The feeling is overwhelming. Familiar. Like it's been there all along—waiting.
Roberto.
The name surfaces before I can stop it. Is that why this feels so familiar?
The days stretch long and restless as I wait for Jimmy's call. I tell myself it's nothing. Just a passing fixation. But it isn't.
Every time my phone buzzes, my heart jumps. Hoping. It's never him.
He's a stranger. He should be a stranger. But when I look into his eyes, it doesn't feel like the first time.
It feels like recognition. Like something unfinished.
Hello, old friend.
###
I have a problem. I can't be at the lounge if Mr. Silence isn't there. I can't be in John's room either—I'm prebooked with Mr. Silence. Still, if I'm with him, I can get close to Jason and work from that angle. So I'll have to play along. But if Jason is always with Mr. Silence… could he be the one behind Clara's disappearance?
The thought knots my stomach tight—but excitement quickly untangles it. I'm going to see Mr. Silence again. I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and shake out my freshly curled hair for volume. Be elegant. He likes elegant. My legs bounce, restless beneath the silk hem of my dress. I inhale, exhale, bite my lower lip, and push through the jittering rush beneath my skin.
Then I open the door to Room Twenty-One. One glance—and his eyes lock on mine. The air shifts. Before I can even breathe, he takes my hand and turns me around. The next thing I know, we're gliding through the back hallway, his touch steady and wordless. I glance over my shoulder, catching one last glimpse of the glowing "21" before the door swings shut behind us.
Inside the limo, he's silent. His attention fixed on the iPad balanced on his knee, his face an unreadable sculpture. The car lurches forward, Akira Lounge shrinking into a smear of city lights through the tinted window.
Am I even allowed to leave with a client? Is Jimmy going to kill me for this? Wait—where are we—
His lips find mine before the question leaves my mouth. My mind blanks.
###
I need to stop.
No. I'll take her.
Once I'm satisfied—she'll be replaceable.
They always are.