Warning: This chapter contains dark themes and may include psychological and physical violence. Read with caution.
*****Time crawled with cruel indifference…yet he never returned.
Terror consumed Lina. She dashed toward the room, calling for Szymon, but he, too, had vanished. Her eyes fell on one of the bags in front of her. A trembling engraving, written in an unsteady hand, as if a desperate attempt: "Sorry… ♡szy."
Lina's chest tightened, a strangled cry escaping her lips as silence twisted around her: — "No… not now, Szymon! God, why now?!"
(He had gone toward the hotel. The secretary's words echoed in his mind like a distant resonance.
He remembered it was the only hotel in the village, and that they had spoken of a meeting — naturally, they would choose a refined place.
Then the words of Ilon, the cook, resurfaced — his dream of wealth and of joining the hotel casino.and that grim rumor whispered from mouth to mouth: of secret gambling games held within its walls, where gangsters and the rich gathered in suspicious rituals. No choice remained but to confront the truth with his own eyes).
Lina trembled as she rushed down the stairs with faltering steps and a pounding heart, while the walls around her seemed to shrink and close in on her.
Alone in a suffocating silence that devoured her breath.
She hurried toward the dormitory, where Igor lay half-asleep, his heavy eyes fixed wearily on the children. She seized his shoulders with trembling hands, shaking him desperately as tears streamed down her cheeks: — "Wake up! Please… I need you. Everyone's gone… and they haven't come back…!"
Igor's eyes opened slowly, while dread began to creep along the orphanage walls.
*****In Pleszów, the lone hotel loomed with six shadowed stories. On the rooftop, a suspicious stir broke the stillness, while inside silence pressed against the walls — the rooms deserted, stripped of ordinary life. Below, gang members gathered, their vigilant eyes sweeping every corner.
The invited guests had long departed, and the truth lay veiled in plain sight: the hotel was no haven for travelers, but a lair of the mafia and their secret dealings. At times its doors opened to deceive the unwary, yet behind the fragile façade, darker currents stirred unseen.
On the fifth floor — Master's suite,
Rafal entered the room with heavy, dragging steps, as if the floor itself resisted him. He carried his cigar, the faint scent of alcohol clinging to him after a few drinks to temper his anger.
A cracked smile curved his lips, a blend of false warmth and sharp mockery, before a mocking whistle escaped him:
— "Oh, where is my little bird?"
His eyes then landed on a corner swallowed by shadow. His eyebrows lifted slightly, and he whispered:
— "Oops.....… there you are."
Zuzanna lay on the couch, her head tilted lazily, a faint, intoxicating smile on her lips. The world around her blurred—sounds, lights, reality itself—caught between wakefulness and dream.
"Come on, little one," Rafal's voice cut through the haze, soft but commanding, his hands moving as if pulling invisible strings.
"No… I won't come," she whispered, a shiver tracing her spine.
Rafal's cold smile spread slowly, eyes glinting with dark satisfaction.
"Ah… this little rebel. I love it when the pills make them defiant. Then guilt doesn't exist."
(The pills he gave his secretary to slip to Zuzanna now coursed through her veins, trapping her between resistance and submission.)
Rafal slowly lifted the vulgar dress from the floor and tossed it toward her with a commanding tone:
— "Weren't you supposed to wear this?"
Zuzanna caught the dress between trembling fingers, then smiled faintly and whispered:
— "Alright… my lord."
He sat on the edge of the bed, watching her in heavy silence, while her eyes — hazy with intoxication — grew more defiant by the moment. She stared at the dress for a long while, then let out a soft laugh:
— "No… I won't wear this. It looks cheap…tawdry."
She stepped toward him, swaying lightly, a dreamy smile playing on her lips. Her voice was slow, almost melodic:
— "My lord… I will never wear it."
He clenched his jaw, struggling to keep his composure:
— "But, little one… this will make you more beautiful… more mature."
She shook her head with stubborn, childlike defiance, her words sharp:
— "No… I don't want to wear anything like that. I'm still little."
His voice rose, anger flashing in his eyes:
— "I said put it on… now!"
But in a wave of wild euphoria, she lifted the dress high in her hands, ripped it apart, and let the shredded pieces fall to the floor, laughing madly:
— "Much better!"
His voice trembled with fury as he roared:
— 'Damn you! What have you done to my beautiful dress? I carefully chose it for you!
He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her toward him. Zuzanna screamed in agony as he forced her head down onto the bed between his legs while sitting.
With a furious tone, he spat:
— "Do you want to see what your recklessness brings you?"
Then, with a devilish smile, he pressed the lit cigarette against her shoulder. Her scream tore through the room as she began to sob. Desperate, she seized his hand and dug her nails deep into his skin until blood ran down. Rafal roared in pain and struck her hard on the head, knocking her to the floor. Large cuts marked his hands, bleeding profusely.
— "Damn you… you've brought this upon yourself!" he growled.
He leaned over her collapsed body and clutched her throat, choking her. For a moment he froze, startled by a sound in the distance… but then he pressed harder. Zuzanna writhed, gasping prayers through broken breaths. He smirked coldly and whispered:
— "You'll regret this, my little bird…"
Lifting his cigarette once again, he burned the top of her chest. She screamed with all the strength left in her lungs, while his laughter echoed—mad, deranged, inhuman.
Suddenly, a violent crash thundered outside, followed by the shattering of glass…...
"Rafal shuddered and drew back. The cold night air rushed inside. He rose slowly, the burning cigarette still between his fingers. His shadow swelled vast and terrifying across the fractured light—like a monstrous beast stripped of authority and sick laughter, leaving behind only a fragile mask feeding on the screams of others."
He took another step back, his eyes widening with shock and fear:
— "What is this… damn it!"
Then he muttered, anger laced with confusion:
— "Damn it… I told everyone to clear the upper floors!"
Zuzanna lay sprawled on the ground, gasping, clutching the burn on her chest. Her eyes searched for the source of the sound, a faint glimmer of hope flickering within them.
Rafal darted into the suite's corridor. No one… and yet, he could still hear footsteps—heavy, deliberate, shaking the floor beneath them. He quickened his pace, switched on every light, then forced a sardonic smile, trying to smother the fear gnawing at his heart. A violent knock made him flinch, then he shouted, his voice booming against the walls:
— "Is anyone here?"
His eyes bulged, and he whispered tensely:
— "Damn it… the weapon!"
He rushed back into the room, slamming the door shut, muttering to himself:
— "They're trying to trick me… they'll kill me just like they killed you, Mother…....."
He lunged for the dresser drawer, pulled out the pistol, checked it, and grabbed the dead phone—its cord severed, useless. With a curse, he hurled it to the floor.
— "Coward! Don't you dare toy with me!"
He turned toward where Zuzanna had been… but froze—she was gone.
— "Damn it! Where are you? Playing a filthy game, you whore?!"
Rafal roared as he tore through the room in a frenzy, then charged toward the bathroom, pistol in hand. The door was locked. He rattled the handle in vain, then bellowed:
— "You won't get another chance! You'll regret this!"
He unleashed a storm of bullets into the door, shredding it before kicking it open.
***At the hotel, the men sprang into action at the sound of gunfire, surging toward Rafale's suite. The elevators were futile—all trapped on the sixth floor. Driven to the crowded stairwell, they pressed upward in a desperate rush, each step carrying them nearer to his ominous chamber.
Close by, two men kept watch. Jack reclined inside a truck parked across the street, while Earl lay in wait in a rented third-floor flat, his sniper rifle stretched before him, poised for the faintest signal to intervene.
Earl, over the comms: — "I think they've started moving."
Jack (sighing with lazy disdain): — "That fool… what took him so long? His entry's a disaster, nothing like his usual style." (Jack assumes it was Luca who fired the shots.)
Earl, chuckling dryly: — "Remind him… he'll never be you."
Jack, laughing: — "Ha! You know what's funny? After all this chaos, and the fact we're practically here by accident, I still don't get why the boss didn't put us on the mission from the start."
Earl: — "He's the boss, Jack. To us it always looks random, but trust me—he's holding something back."
Jack, smirking: — "If I were in his place? I'd have kept it calm and clean."
Earl (with a sly grin): — "Calm and clean? Jack, just stick to your part." Then muttering under his breath: — "You'd have set the whole damn village on fire before reaching the hotel…"
Jack (stretching with boredom): — "I'm tired of sitting here. What do you say we stir things up a bit?"
Earl: — "It's still a covert mission. Don't go trigger-happy—you're the last man who could take the heat."
Jack (frowning at the memory): — "Yeah… I remember when the boss froze me out completely. Kept me off the field for months."
Earl (snickering): — "Right. Turned you into a drunken crooner."
Jack (slapping the dashboard with a laugh): — But I had fun...…
And then—a thunderous crash split the night, shaking everything around them to its core.....