THE NON-DISCLOSURE AGREEMENT
POV: Elena Rostova
The hallway leading to the East Wing was less a corridor and more of an airlock.
My socks—one wool, one cotton—slid silently over the dark marble. The material was so polished that the reflection of the recessed lighting strips overhead looked like lasers cutting across the floor. There were no pictures on the walls. No side tables with vases of dead flowers. There was absolutely nothing to distract the eye. Just endless, sterile stretches of greyscale.
Marcus walked two paces ahead of me. His gait was brisk, the walk of a man who had memorized the exact friction coefficient of the floorboards.
"Does he live alone?" I asked. My voice sounded jagged, scratching against the smooth acoustics of the hallway.
"Mr. Vane values solitude," Marcus said without turning around. "The staff enters only when he is absent or specifically summoned. The cleaning crews operate on a shift between 2:00 a.m. and 4:00 a.m. You will likely never see them."
"Ghosts," I muttered.
"Efficiency," Marcus corrected. He stopped at a door that looked indistinguishable from the wall panels, save for a small biometric scanner at waist height.
He pressed his thumb against it. A soft, pneumatic hiss signaled the disengagement of the lock.
"This is your sector," he said, stepping aside to let me pass. "The guest quarters. Although Mr. Vane dislikes the term 'guest.' He prefers 'Resident.'"
I stepped over the threshold, clutching my bag so tightly against my stomach that I could feel the rectangular hard drive of my laptop digging into my ribs.
The room was vast. Of course it was vast. Space in New York City was the ultimate currency, and Silas Vane evidently had infinite reserves. The far wall was entirely glass, canted slightly outward so that looking through it felt like hanging off the edge of the world. The city lights below were a blurry galaxy of kinetic energy, but in here, everything was static.
A low, floating platform bed dominated the center of the room. It was dressed in white linens so crisp they looked like they had been starched into submission. A wardrobe built of frosted glass and steel took up the right wall. To the left, a bathroom doorway with no door—just an open arch leading to white stone and chrome.
"It looks like a surgical theater," I whispered.
"It is designed to minimize visual noise," Marcus said. He held out his hand.
I stared at his open palm. It was steady, expectant.
"Your bag, Ms. Rostova."
"I need my laptop," I said, stepping back. My heels bumped against the smooth doorframe. "My life is on this hard drive. My contacts, my drafts, my…" I trailed off. My what? My bank delinquency notices? My failed manuscript?
"I have explicit instructions," Marcus said, his tone softening just a fraction. It was the first crack in his armor I'd seen. He looked tired. Deep lines fanned out from his eyes, the kind etched by years of managing a tyrant. "Mr. Vane believes outside objects carry… residue. Not just physical dirt, but psychic clutter. He wants you to begin with a blank slate."
"He wants to control the narrative," I argued. "He can't just delete my history."
"He already has, Elena," Marcus said gently, using my first name for the first time. "He bought the debt. He bought the time. Now he is buying your environment. Please. Do not make me call security. It disrupts the evening flow."
I looked at the bag. Then I looked at the window, where the rain was lashing silently against the triple-paned glass. Out there, Nikolai was waiting. Out there, the cold was wet and smelled of urine and fear. In here, it was warm. It was a terrifying, suffocating warmth, but it was safe.
I exhaled a breath I felt like I'd been holding since my father died.
I placed the strap of the bag into Marcus's hand.
"What happens to it?" I asked, my voice trembling.
"The electronics will be wiped and recycled. The clothing will be incinerated."
"And the notebook?" I asked. "There's a black Moleskine. Handwritten."
Marcus paused. He looked at the bag, then back at me. "I will place the notebook in quarantine. If Mr. Vane permits, it will be returned to you after sterilization. No promises."
He turned to the frosted glass wardrobe. He tapped a panel, and the doors slid open silently.
"Your wardrobe has been stocked according to your measurements—which Mr. Vane estimated visually."
"He estimated my measurements?" The thought made my skin prickle. "From across the room?"
"He has an eye for dimensions. It is rarely wrong." Marcus gestured to the bathroom. "There are products in the shower. Unscented. pH balanced. Please scrub thoroughly. He… can tell if you haven't."
Marcus backed out of the room. He didn't say goodbye. He just stepped into the hall.
"One last thing," he said, holding the doorframe. "There are no locks on the bedroom doors inside the Penthouse."
"What?" I whipped around. "Why?"
"Mr. Vane believes locked doors imply secrets. And inside the system, there are no secrets."
"I sleep with the door locked," I said, panic flaring. "That's non-negotiable."
"Everything is negotiable when the price is right, Ms. Rostova. Sleep well."
The door slid shut. The click was final.
I was alone.
I stood in the center of the room, feeling the phantom weight of my bag still on my shoulder. I looked at the bed. It looked like a slab of ice. I looked at the wardrobe.
I walked over to the closet. My reflection in the glass was grotesque—wet hair, pale skin, oversized coat dripping onto the pristine floor. I yanked the wardrobe open.
I expected uniforms. Scrubs, maybe. Or grey jumpsuits like inmates.
Instead, I saw silk. Rows of it.
Hanging on the rack were slips, nightgowns, and lounge sets. They were all in shades of charcoal, slate, and onyx. I reached out and touched the fabric of a floor-length slip. It was heavy, liquid silk, cool to the touch. It was obscenely expensive. There was no lace, no pattern. Just severe, architectural cuts of fabric meant to drape over the body like water.
I opened the drawers. Underwear. Black. Seamless. Functional yet erotic in its simplicity.
"He dressed a doll," I whispered to the empty room. "He just bought a doll and built a dollhouse."
A shiver raked down my spine. I was freezing in my wet clothes. I needed the heat.
I walked into the bathroom.
It was a cavern of white marble. The shower was a glass box in the center of the room, big enough for four people. A rain head the size of a manhole cover was mounted in the ceiling.
I stripped.
The wet coat was heavy as I dropped it. My sweater, damp and smelling of mildew, joined the pile. My jeans, stiff with cold. My mismatched socks.
I stood naked in the bright, unforgiving light of the bathroom. There was a mirror stretching the length of the vanity. I forced myself to look.
I looked hungry. My ribs pressed against my skin. My collarbones were sharp ridges. I had bruises on my hip from bumping into a table earlier that week, and purple shadows under my eyes that no amount of concealer could hide. I looked like a stray dog that had been kicked too many times.
I turned away from the reflection and stepped into the glass shower.
I twisted the chrome dial.
The water didn't sputter; it descended in an instant, perfectly heated torrent. It hit my skin, and I gasped. It was hot—scaldingly, wonderfully hot. I stood there for a long minute, just letting it hammer against my skull, washing away the freezing rain of Brighton Beach.
I grabbed the bottle of soap from the niche. It was a nondescript black bottle labeled simply: CLEANSER.
I squeezed the gel into my hand. It was clear. I scrubbed. I scrubbed my arms until the skin turned pink. I scrubbed the smell of Nikolai's cologne off my jaw. I scrubbed the subway grime from my legs.
He can tell if you haven't.
The thought of Silas Vane inspecting me—checking my hygiene like I was a piece of fruit—made my stomach churn. Was he watching now?
I looked up at the ceiling corners. No cameras. At least, none that I could see. But a man who designed buildings like this knew how to hide things in the seams.
I finished washing, my skin raw and tingling. I turned off the water. The silence returned instantly.
I stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel that was thick and fluffy and smelled like nothing. Just air.
I went back to the bedroom. I felt… exposed. The wall of glass was a giant eye. I knew, logically, that ninety stories up, no one could see in. But it felt like the sky itself was voyeuristic.
I went to the wardrobe and pulled down the first thing I touched. A black silk slip dress with thin spaghetti straps.
I put it on. It slid over my skin like oil. It fit perfectly. The hem brushed my ankles. The neckline was low, framing the sharp angles of my chest. It offered no warmth, but it covered my nakedness.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
On the nightstand, which was just a cantilevered shelf of stone, there was a tablet.
It was pulsating with a faint white light.
I picked it up. There was no home screen. Just a document titled: PROTOCOL.
I tapped it.
RESIDENCY PARAMETERS:
SUBJECT: Elena Rostova
1. TEMPORAL DISCIPLINE: Awakening is at 06:00. Lights out is at 23:00. Deviations disrupt the circadian rhythm of the environment and will be noted.2. ACOUSTIC CONTROL: No loud music. No shouting. Conversations are to be held at conversational volume. The Spire is a place of focus.3. DIETARY COMPLIANCE: Meals will be provided at 07:00, 13:00, and 19:00. No food is allowed in the bedrooms. Hydration is mandatory. You are currently malnourished; caloric intake will be monitored.4. MOVEMENT RESTRICTIONS: The East Wing is yours. The North Wing (The Studio) is restricted. Entry into the North Wing without invitation triggers security protocols.5. THE METHOD: You are here to observe. You will write daily summaries of your observations. You will submit them to the server by 20:00. Mr. Vane will edit them.6. CONSEQUENCE: Failure to adhere to protocols results in the suspension of privileges. Repeated failure breaches the contract. If the contract is breached, the debt reverts to the original holder.
I stared at the last line.
If the contract is breached, the debt reverts to the original holder.
It was the leash. He was telling me, in polite corporate font, that if I annoyed him, he would feed me back to the wolves.
I dropped the tablet back onto the stone shelf. The glass clattered.
I looked at the digital clock on the wall. 23:15.
I was late.
I crawled into the massive bed. The sheets were cool and smooth, with a thread count that felt liquid. I pulled the duvet up to my chin.
I couldn't sleep.
The silence was too loud. In my apartment, there was always noise—pipes groaning, sirens wailing, neighbors arguing. The noise was company. It was life.
Here, the silence was heavy. It pressed against my eardrums. It felt like the air had been vacuumed out of the room.
I lay there for an hour, staring at the ceiling. My mind replayed the meeting. The way he had looked at my socks. Imperfection.
I was a structural flaw in his perfect glass box.
Eventually, the thirst drove me up. The stress had left my throat parched.
I threw off the covers. My bare feet hit the cold floor. I needed water. There was no water in the room, just the empty nightstand.
Rule 4: The East Wing is yours.
There had to be a kitchen or a wet bar in the common area of the wing.
I crept toward the door. I placed my hand on the panel. It slid open.
The hallway was dark now. The recessed lighting had dimmed to a faint ember glow along the baseboards.
I walked softly, trailing my hand along the wall for balance. The corridor opened up into a mezzanine lounge area—a stark space with a long grey sofa and a wet bar built into the wall.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
I walked to the bar and found a crystal pitcher of water and a glass. I poured it, my hand shaking slightly. The crystal clinked.
I drank greedily, the cool water soothing my raw throat.
Then I saw him.
Or rather, I saw the ghost of him.
The lounge looked out over the central atrium of the penthouse. Across the void, maybe fifty feet away, through layers of glass, was the North Wing. The restricted zone.
The lights were on over there.
The wall was entirely transparent. It was an office. A drafting studio.
Silas Vane was working.
I froze, the glass halfway to my mouth.
He had removed his jacket. He was wearing a black dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that were corded with muscle—shockingly powerful for a man who spent his life behind a desk.
He was standing over a massive drafting table that was tilted at an angle.
He wasn't using a computer. He was drawing.
I watched, mesmerized. His movements were violent in their precision. He would slash a line across the paper, then pause, his body rigid. He held a long ruler in one left hand and a pencil in the right.
He stopped. He stared at the paper.
Even from this distance, I could see the tension radiating off him. He looked like he was at war with the paper.
Suddenly, he straightened. He grabbed the sheet of paper—a massive blueprint—and ripped it off the table. He didn't crumble it. He tore it. Once. Twice. Four times. Perfectly down the middle.
He dropped the pieces to the floor, where they joined a pile of other white debris.
He raked his hands through his hair—a gesture so human, so frustrated, it shocked me.
Then, he stopped.
Slowly, terrifically slowly, he turned his head.
He looked across the atrium. Across the void. Through the glass of his studio, through the darkness of the atrium, and through the glass of the lounge.
He looked right at me.
He couldn't possibly see me. I was in the dark. He was in the light. Physics dictated that he would only see his own reflection.
But I felt it. A cold pressure between my eyes. A gravitational pull.
He didn't move. He stood there, backlit by the drafting lamps, a dark god in a glass tower, staring into the shadows where his new pet was hiding.
I backed away, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I set the glass down on the counter, missing the coaster. It made a sharp click.
He tilted his head slightly.
I turned and fled. I ran back down the corridor, the silk dress fluttering around my legs. I scrambled back into my room and hit the button to close the door.
I practically dived into the bed, pulling the covers over my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
I wasn't just a writer here. I wasn't just a guest.
I was the only living thing he hadn't designed, and he was going to tear me apart until he figured out how to fix me.
I lay in the dark, and for the first time in years, I missed the sound of the sirens.
Because up here, the monsters didn't scream. They just watched.