The Red Block's pavilion lit up with amber lights as evening fell. From the balcony, Veronika watched official cars roll in one after another, releasing politicians in heavy coats, elegantly dressed companions, and an air of triumph that smelled like power. The polished floor threw back the reflection of every step; nothing was left to chance.
The uniform Anna had given her was more revealing than she had imagined. A short skirt, a tight bodice, and the red ribbon cinched at her neck like a seal. Every thread of fabric was designed to put her on display.
As she descended toward the main hall, she was met by a transformed world. Candelabras burned with perfumed oil flames; soft string music blended with the murmur of diplomatic conversation. The mansion's everyday austerity had been replaced by calculated luxury, a staging where the Red Block was part of the decoration.
Veronika watched with discomfort as the red-ribbon maids were lined along the corridors, not to serve trays, but to be seen. A guest stroked one of their faces with casual familiarity; she smiled with no will of her own. Another was led into a private room while the others pretended not to notice. The spectacle was not a dinner or a banquet: it was a theatre of submission wrapped in gold and crystal.
From a corner, Veronika managed to make out how several maids were forced into subtler, more humiliating games. Some girls were made to sit on politicians' laps, or to remain motionless while the men, laughing, compared their bodies as if they were part of the menu. There was a crude showmanship in the air, a choreography without music where each woman was displayed according to the whim of whoever claimed her. One played the violin alone, serving as background music. Some seemed to have learned how to fake smiles; others kept their gaze empty, as if they were not truly there. As if they had detached from their own bodies just to endure the scene.
A chill ran down Veronika's spine. She did not fully understand what was happening, but she understood it went far beyond serving drinks or lowering her head. The pressure in her stomach made her search for a safe point, a refuge. That was when she saw him: the Master, standing at the back, flanked by two female guards, greeting each newcomer with measured courtesy.
Veronika pushed her way through the lines and approached him, ignoring Anna's disapproving looks.
—Scared already? the Master murmured, without taking his eyes off the politician whose hand he had just shaken.
—This isn't what I thought, Veronika replied quietly, trying to keep her chin raised.
—Nothing here is what it seems, he answered, almost kindly. —Stay calm, Kensington.
She drew a deep breath.—They're using them like sexual objects. And I'm supposed to tolerate this too?
—You're supposed to watch and learn, the Master said, with calculated serenity. —Every gesture here is a reflection of power.
Veronika stared at him in disbelief.—Power? All I see is humiliation.
He narrowed his eyes, as if gauging the force of her words.—What you call humiliation is the price of stability. Many of these men govern every part of the Country; I offer them a space where they can speak without a moral mask. And you, Kensington, are no exception: like it or not, you are part of the stage.
Veronika pressed her lips together, aware she had no response that would not leave her even more exposed.—If you think I'm going to fall… I… like them, you're wrong…
The Master turned his face slightly toward her, without losing his composure.
—That's why you're here, Veronika. Because your rebellion is still more useful to me than miserable silence.
She stayed at his side like a shadow as the flow of guests continued. It was not courage that kept her there, but fear of what was happening around her.
Time became viscous until, among the crowd of dark suits, a different man appeared. He was not old, but his bearing carried the confidence of someone who knows he is indispensable. His cold eyes swept the room as if evaluating the structure of a battle. His smile was barely a gesture, a reminder that he could wear it or withdraw it at will.
He made his way to the Master, dipping his head slightly.—Master, it's been a long time, he greeted, with a brief bow heavy with respect. —Daryan, at your service.
The Master acknowledged him with a small gesture.—I didn't remember you were a supporter of these events.
—Times demand it, Master. And sometimes it's necessary to taste the poison we usually avoid.
Veronika, until then anchored to the Master's presence, felt the newcomer's attention land on her for an instant, inquisitive, as if her mere presence broke the logic of the scene. He said nothing; that look was enough for her to understand a new piece had entered the game, someone who was not like the other guests.
The air in the gallery changed in density. Daryan smiled faintly, enigmatic, before turning his attention back to the host.