I tilted my head slightly as I looked at the man who had just emerged from behind the carefully trimmed shrubs.
— I don't think I've had the chance to introduce myself — I said softly but kindly. — I'm Alyssa Mervaux, the ethics supervisor.
The man paused for a moment, removed his glove, and looked me in the eye.
— I know who you are. I just don't understand what business you have with a gardener. What do you want from me?
— Nothing in particular — I tried to smile at him encouragingly. — I thought we could talk. How's the work? Is it hard? Do you like working here?
— Ma'am — he cut in, kindly but firmly. — I'm a simple man. I do my job. I see, I hear things, like in every place like this. Crying, laughter, doctors, patients. There's nothing unusual here. Don't look for the fault in me.
Then he nodded and picked up the paper cup.
— Thank you for the coffee.
Well then — I thought — that's that.
It was afternoon, and my plan was to cover as much ground as possible while I still could. I wanted to see everything. I stopped in the corridors, peered into the small, snow-white relaxation rooms where silent air filters buzzed. There were aromatherapy cabins where fragrant steam rose toward the ceiling. Darkened, enclosed meditation spaces where only sound therapy was used. I passed through a spacious fitness area, then into something labeled a "neuroluxury suite" — that's what the door said. Inside, everything looked like it had stepped off a magazine page: soft, pale beige sofas, thick, plush, personalized sound systems playing soft, soothing melodies. In the kitchenette, bowls filled with fresh fruit, sterile elegance — and a strange, inexplicable dissonance: the perfection was too perfect.
Later, at the administration desk, I stood leaning on my elbow, watching Irem type in front of the screen.
— I'd like all the collected files so far — I said firmly.
Irem blinked and looked up.
— But… ma'am, that's not possible today, I'm afraid you arrived too late. You can comfortably begin reading through them tomorrow.
— I looked at her sharply — somehow I had expected another inexplicable complication.
— Don't worry, Irem — I replied with a frosty smile. — I wasn't planning to go through them here anyway.
They won't outsmart me with tricky rules… now I'm really starting to play.
The dark-windowed car rolled quietly through the inner gate.
In the courtyard in front of the villa, the driver opened the door. I stepped out proudly. In the next moment, I was sitting with absolute composure in the front garden in a white, rattan Bali Classic garden chair, its cushions completely buried in folders.
In my lap: psychological profiles; beside me: neural response analyses; on the ground: "Cognitive Progression Simulations," "Regression Reports," and a stack of encrypted "R3-P" files.
With tea in hand, I was immersed in notes when…
… the motorcade arrived.
One of the vehicles was a black AMG Mercedes. The driver's door opened, and Aslan Vardem stepped out. He slowly walked toward me, his gaze gliding over the pile of papers and then over me. I didn't even look at him, just kept reading with curious, triumphant interest.
— Sir… excuse me — one of his attendants spoke up — but it seems the spare key we were looking for is somewhere… — he looked around, then hesitated — …on the chair the lady is sitting in. It might have been under the cushion.
I still didn't look up. I simply pointed sideways with one hand, indicating the direction.
— It's probably under the psychoneuroimmunology group file. Or between the behavioral response codes. I don't know — they're all blending together.
Aslan stared for a moment, then the corner of his mouth moved. As if he were smiling.
— Good afternoon, sir! — the housekeeper hurried over — The guests will arrive in a few hours for dinner, but I can't set up things in the front garden… Would the back garden be acceptable?
Aslan didn't respond for a long moment. His eyes drifted back to me, as I sat buried in paperwork at the heart of administrative chaos, like someone cheerfully hunting for winning lottery numbers. Though I didn't look at him, I felt every glance.
Finally, he answered softly, with a half-smile:
— If there's still room between the neuropsychological mappings and the memory leakage archive, then yes. Use the back garden. And feel free to remove any criminal files from the table, if there are any.
The housekeeper still looked slightly stunned, nodded, and hurried off.
I couldn't help but smile at his remark, then finally looked up — directly into the man's eyes.
— Those are in your bed — I said with amused calm. — There wasn't room for them out here.
Aslan didn't respond. He just turned and walked back toward the car.
And then, barely noticeable — but it was there again.
The half-smile.
And I took a casual sip of my tea, like someone who just won the lottery.