How to Get Girls, Get Rich, and Rule the World (Even If You're Ugly)-Chapter 54: How to Decode a Hoard of Forbidden Things (4)

Thalia took half a step forward. Instinctive. Curious.

"No." My voice came out low, but sharp.

It wasn’t just a warning; it was a line drawn on the ground between impulse and disaster.

She froze, half step suspended, like someone who feels the change in the air before hearing the thunder.

"They were delivering something," she said, still transfixed, her eyes fixed on the figure as if trying to force meaning out of it.

But I had seen this kind of movement before.

It wasn’t a delivery.

It was deference.

"No. They were authorizing something."

The words came out slowly, like someone choosing scalpels, not syllables. That hadn’t been a simple exchange of information. It was confirmation that something could happen.

"How do you know?"

She wanted a logical argument, maybe concrete evidence. But there are things that can’t be explained with facts. Only with patterns.

"Because there was no hesitation."

And it was true. Neither of the two men hesitated to kneel. They didn’t test the environment, didn’t scan the surroundings, didn’t measure risk. They already knew they could trust. Or worse: they already knew they were there just to obey.

"That doesn’t mean anything."

"It means she’s the center. And they orbit around her."

In my head, the scene rearranged itself like a diagram. Not linear. Orbital. She wasn’t a participant — she was the axis. The seated figure wasn’t part of a power cell. She was the nucleus. And the two men didn’t seem like accomplices. They were planets with fixed orbits, gravitating around something whose density wasn’t physical, but symbolic.

She looked again. The figure had already returned to her previous position. Sitting. Still. As if nothing had happened. And yet, everything had changed.

It was like looking at an altar after the sacrifice: the blood already absorbed by the stone, the silence reclaimed — but the entire space still vibrating with what had been offered.

"She’s still there," Thalia whispered.

"Yes."

And that bothered me.

Because her presence wasn’t casual. Or vulnerable. It was a perfect trap in the absence of motion. Everything around screamed danger, but the center was calm — and that kind of calm always scared me the most.

"And we can still try."

"Maybe."

I stared at the ground. Not out of uncertainty, but because the mud reflected a part of the sky I couldn’t see from here. It was clean. Dark. Almost like a mirror. As if the entire alley were a space between worlds, and she, a living threshold — a ritual disguised as a woman.

"But?"

Yes, there’s always a but. And it had been pulsing since the moment the hooded figures emerged from a corner I was certain didn’t exist.

The but was the feeling I couldn’t shake — that here, we were no longer the investigators.

We were the next question in the riddle.

And I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to know the answer.

I looked toward the alley where the men had come from.

The space where they vanished. freewebnσvel.cѳm

The point where their footsteps made no echo.

"But now we’re not alone anymore.

And whoever’s watching from above...

Might be deciding whether it’s worth letting us leave."

Thalia was still watching the woman like someone searching for humanity in a mannequin. I, on the other hand, was trying to understand the mechanism behind the scene. Because that’s what it felt like now: a scene. Something staged, orchestrated. A structure with order, with rules. With surveillance.

"She’s not here by accident," I said, barely realizing I was speaking aloud. "And she’s not alone."

Thalia gave me a glance from the side. She knew what I meant. She knew my mind no longer saw that woman as an agent — but as an instrument.

And in that instant, something repeated for the third time in under a minute: the system in my head showed nothing.

No character sheet.

No status.

No danger alert.

Just a cold, jagged, misaligned description:

[UNCLASSIFIED OBJECT: "structure with runic signals of unknown density"]

It was as if the system — the one that always translated my reality with surgical precision — was now seeing a chair. Or a statue. Or a forgotten fragment of living ruin.

But she was there.

Breathing.

Watching.

Answering without moving.

And that scared me.

"Do you think she’s watching?" Thalia asked.

"Not just watching. She’s signaling. Think about it... no one sits there for that long without giving in to pain, or cold, or sleep, without twitching. She doesn’t twitch."

And then, the doubt started to spread inside me — deeper than usual.

Because in my previous life, back in the old world, even the most corrupt system still anchored itself in some kind of logic.

Judges could be bought, but they still followed protocols.

Officers could lie, but they always carried signs of guilt — microexpressions, hesitations, instability in their tone.

Even deception had patterns.

But here, now, in that alley, in front of that woman who neither trembled nor blinked, there was no pattern.

There was no "institutional fiction," as my old law professors used to call it.

There was emptiness.

And emptiness is the worst kind of threat.

Because you can’t negotiate with it.

You can’t predict it.

You can’t corrupt it.

"You’re saying she’s not... a person?"

She didn’t move. Not an inch. Not even the kind of microgesture that even the most trained can’t avoid. No tic. No adjustment of posture. The air around her seemed heavier, as if space itself had learned to respect her stillness. And that... that wasn’t human.

Not because people don’t know how to stay still. But because even the dead carry some kind of fluctuation in time. She didn’t. She was beyond calm. She was the wait itself. Like a bell at the top of a tower no one touches by hand. A bell that only responds to the right wind. Or the right name. Or the right mistake.

And that’s when the idea hit me.

She wasn’t a sentinel.

She was a device.

The kind of presence that doesn’t exist to act — but to trigger something bigger.

Like those old museum sensors — unmoving, small, tucked in the corner of a wall, but ready to wake up the entire inferno if someone crosses the red line unknowingly.

Only here, the red line was symbolic.

And the museum was a living city.