Archives of the Future

Night At Dubai

“Not all that glitters is gold.”

— William Shakespeare

He didn’t. Not right away. This was his job, after all – clean suit, quiet mouth, invisible presence. He was expected to speak only when addressed. Nothing more, nothing less.

Despite his youth, his experience behind the wheel ran deep. He’d witnessed enough heated situations to fill a gossip column — lovers in collapse, backseat bargains, lies delivered so smoothly they felt rehearsed. The car had four wheels and more secrets than a priest on call.

Usually, a sleek sliding panel would shield the driver from the human drama in the back. But Diona’s driver had stopped being just that. He was now lover, confidant, and accessory to decadence. Maraya wasn’t about to moralize. She kept it light, and slowly, his stiffness began to crack.

By the time they reached the hotel’s grand entrance, she already knew his name—Tony, short for Antonio—and they had settled into an easy rhythm, trading quick stories like two people who’d met before in another life. A moment later, he stepped out, opened her door with quiet flair, and helped her to the curb. With a quiet voice and a trace of surprise, Tony admitted the ride had felt unexpectedly pleasant. Even refreshing. Then came the slip—the kind that’s not really a mistake.

He glanced at her, just briefly, and said

“You’re just… not like the people she usually brings around. You don’t even seem like you come from the same family. There’s something… different…real about you.”

Maraya turned and pierced him with her emerald eyes. Not as a challenge, but as a pulse of recognition. A moment passed, charged. She smiled—not just because she could feel his curiosity, but because his words carried something rare: independent thought. He wasn’t another sculpted clone orbiting surgically enhanced women obsessed with labels and filters. This one could see. She thanked him for the ride, gave him a sharp, playful look, and winked goodbye.

Her luggage vanished into the hands of staff before she could even turn to look. At the front desk, a perfectly rehearsed smile informed her that Miss Diona was currently relaxing on the hotel’s private beach—and would be happy to see her once she’d settled in and freshened up.

A little surprise also awaited her:

Dinner – crafted by Michelin-starred chefs and followed by an aerial tour over nighttime Dubai, ending with a rooftop landing at one of the city’s most elite nightclubs.

Maraya gave a slight nod — polite, but distant.

The hostess — a woman with a polished voice and a rehearsed smile — laid out the evening’s schedule like she was describing her own fairy tale. But Maraya could see through it. The woman didn’t belong here. She hovered around this world, but wasn’t part of it. Nights like this were her job — not her dream.

Diona, on the other hand, thrived in it. These events were her stage, her element. For the hostess, it was just glitter she’d never touch. Maraya didn’t bother reacting. What was the point?

She was already half-tired from the drama. All she wanted was to disappear somewhere quiet — somewhere with meaning. Not this sparkling circus where people chased reflections of themselves in champagne flutes. She couldn’t wait to get to the part of the evening that promised something real. These places might gather the wealthy, but offered little to anyone awake.

“Such a fuss… for nothing.”

Fashion ruled every conversation like a god. Trends zipped across continents faster than airplanes, thanks to livestreams and a global army of social media clones. Same poses. Same filters. Same manicured “peacocks,” as Maraya called them—preening online, teaching the world how to dress, how to pose, how to pretend they were happy.

It hit her again—that dull ache of disappointment. The thinkers were outnumbered. The learners, drowned out by surgically curated muses — famous for little but their faces and their connections. Everyone wanted money and fame, no one wisdom or truth. All was about the rich and glory, chasing ‘easy money’ while feeding the reptilian part of their brain.

She sighed, slow and quiet. The world had split in two: Experiment No. 1 – the new generation of brainless, loud, overfed humans…and Experiment No. 2 – the old billionaires pulling the strings behind the scenes – The puppet masters. Most of  Experiment 1 served those who had created it. The formula was simple: Control the system. Buy the chaos. Pay in paper. Take the gold. Only a select few had ever seen their real faces.

She dropped her bag in the room and barely glanced at the sea-view suite, complete with polished marble, gold fixtures, and a skyline meant to impress. None of it mattered. She just needed a moment to herself—to breathe, reset, and change. But first, a quick detour. The hotel boutiques were lined up like a trophy case for the world’s most expensive bad taste. Still, she managed to find a swimsuit that didn’t scream “designer,” plus a high-SPF sunscreen for her pale skin, and a light mesh kaftan—just in case Diona insisted on parading through the beach bar.

Back in her suite, something caught her eye. A bag. Branded. Folded neatly on the bed.

Next to it, a note on thick hotel stationery, the kind no one used unless they wanted to impress or manipulate. Diona’s handwriting—still elegant, despite everything—stared back at her.

“Welcome! The driver will help you find me.

I can’t wait to see you — and to introduce you to Omar, my companion for the evening.”

Of course. There had to be a man involved. Maraya exhaled through her nose and adjusted her tunic. She could already feel the weight of Diona’s gaze—judging her outfit, her choices, her every breath. She looked down, then up, smoothing the fabric across her body like armor.

Tony appeared at the door right on cue, back in his tailored suit, stoic as ever. She opened the door wearing nothing but her swimsuit and a loose caftan. Most men would’ve scanned her, top to bottom. Maybe smirked. Maybe blushed. Tony didn’t flinch. His eyes stayed exactly where they needed to be—on the job. But he noticed the flicker of hesitation in her. Time spent around Diona had taught him what that meant, and without being asked, he stepped in—just enough to steady and to lift her confidence. He knew she needed it.

“You look very elegant,” he said quietly, as if the words had been waiting. “The black highlights your fair skin, and the gold… gives you presence, a fine choice.”

The elevator ride was short, but not uneventful. Tony stood beside her, perfectly composed at first glance. But Maraya saw it. The subtle flex in his fingers, a slow tension curling into a fist. A single breath caught in his throat and released too carefully.

Most would’ve missed it. She didn’t. That kind of restraint only came when a man was holding back a very specific type of heat, one that didn’t belong in an elevator with a woman in a golden mesh caftan. She felt it—knew it. Not because he showed it, but because he fought it. And that said everything.

Walking towards the pool, Maraya adjusted the sheer wrap around her waist and drew a quiet breath. The show had already started. Diona was standing there, smiling brightly as she chatted with a man whose perfect tan was clearly the result of expensive tanning treatments. His teeth gleamed against the soft palette of his clothes, which did more to show off his glow than hide it. Her smile was wide, but not quite sincere. It was for show. As soon as she saw her cousin approaching, Diona stood up, smoothing her hair with one graceful motion and flashing a smile—part instinct, part performance. She moved quickly toward Maraya, not rushing, but just enough to turn heads. Her embrace was warm, almost real. Not just for show. Or at least… not entirely.

Maraya responded in kind, allowing herself to be folded into it, holding the pose a heartbeat longer than necessary. For the crowd, yes. But also for something else. Something older, quieter, still flickering beneath the surface.

Omar remained seated by the pool, his body turned slightly to catch the best angle of the sun. He sipped his cocktail with the precision of someone fully aware of how he looked doing it. A slow gesture, theatrical but practiced. Then came the smile – too white to be real, too perfect to be cheap. When Maraya approached, the introduction was brief but rehearsed. His handshake was just firm enough, his gaze lingering the exact second required to seem intrigued but not inappropriate. Everything about him felt airbrushed—broad shoulders, sculpted arms, and a frame that spoke of more hours in the gym than in any library. His grooming was meticulous—the kind that took intention, and the quiet confidence of someone who knew exactly what effect he had. And while the effect was technically attractive, Maraya couldn’t shake the sense that she was meeting a very handsome mannequin programmed to flirt.

He was charming. Of course, he was. That came with the territory. But the charm sat on him like a rented suit—expensive, well-cut, but not truly his. She didn’t dislike him. Not exactly. He was too polished, too… everything. Maraya had met his type before. They came with designer sunglasses, plans for brunch, and an Instagram full of carefully lit abs. He wasn’t rude. He wasn’t leering. He was just present, in the curated way of a man who always knew where the camera was, even when there wasn’t one.

“You made it,” Diona said, beaming as if she hadn’t just been giving her full attention to Omar. “Come, sit, tell me everything.”

The table had untouched cocktails and appetizers, along with two pairs of sunglasses facing the sun. Maraya sat, letting her body settle while her mind stayed alert. The air smelled of salt, sunscreen, and something artificial—like success trying too hard.

The conversation drifted like the breeze—light, superficial, easy to tune out. Maraya nodded in the right places, offered the appropriate smiles, but her eyes scanned the scene. Diona had slipped into hostess mode, her voice lifted just enough to carry, her posture perfect.  Omar chimed in occasionally and smiled often, always at the right moments.  It was quite a performance. Beautiful, hollow, practiced.

Tony stood a step to the side, detached from the scene of hugs, air-kisses, exclamations, and giggles. At last, when the little performance ended, Maraya was introduced as “the cousin.” And Diona announced that it was time to get ready for the upcoming evening. To which Maraya replied politely, though with a trace of reluctance in her voice:

“And what happened to planning our journey?”

“And that will happen, darling…but tomorrow, after we’ve had some proper sleep,” Diona giggled, just a touch too loudly. Which, translated from her dialect of glamour and deflection, meant: “Don’t bother me with any of that right now. I’m in party mode, and planning is the last thing on my mind.”  

Tony stood slightly to the side—quiet, alert, but firmly in control. He looked more like a bodyguard than a driver, which, in this world, was often part of the job. At some point, he noticed the cousins had switched to Bulgarian. Subtle, but clear. And he caught it right away.

 It had that Slavic weight, like Russian, but softer somehow. Warmer. More alive. He’d heard it before. A long time ago. Back when he was seventeen and falling hard for a Russian girl whose father happened to be his first employer. That’s when the language entered his blood first through stolen kisses, then through shouted orders. Later, at the academy, they sharpened it. Along with everything else. The FSB – new letters, old methods. That’s where they stripped him down to bone and rebuilt him into function. Taught him to kill the spark in his chest. Bury instinct. Quell the fire. Survival first. Always. He hadn’t stopped since. Missions. Names. Reports. Mostly men with money and power – he knew their types as well as he knew his reflection. He had no family. Never did. Orphanage kid. Angry. Fast. Unbreakable. That’s what caught their eye. That heat inside him. That fight. The thing they couldn’t teach – only find, and then use.They didn’t just recruit him. They claimed him. And somewhere along the way, he stopped resisting.

At first, he was attached to Diona as her chauffeur – but in truth, the real subject of his observation was her husband. Women like Diona were always surrounded by people of interest- businessmen, politicians, and targets. She held no value to the agency, but also didn’t interfere. Thanks to his “chauffeur duties,” Tony could access places and people that would otherwise take far more effort to reach.

As he stood nearby, Tony pretended not to listen, but he understood more than he let on. The cousins had slipped into Bulgarian, thinking it gave them privacy. It didn’t. Diona, in her usual vivid tone, was describing—in detail—just how skilled Tony was in bed. And how she couldn’t wait to have a wild, unforgettable night with Omar. When Maraya, unable to hide her disbelief, asked how she could be so detached, so cold-blooded, Diona just shrugged and said:

“Reptiles still exist today for one reason only – they’re not emotional. And if they are, it’s minimal.”

Maraya fell silent. Something in Diona’s words clung to her – not just the bluntness, but the emptiness behind it. She turned inward. Tony wasn’t just likable….In a different world, in another lifetime, he could’ve been the real thing. A man you’d trust with your shadow. But women like Diona didn’t leave room for men like that. They burned through tenderness as if it were weakness, turning men into tools, not partners. And the worst part? They did it willingly – so they could be seen as something untouchable, worshipped, not for love or soul, but for the chaos they triggered in someone’s blood. How unnatural. How hollow. How inhuman it all felt. Maraya couldn’t believe that such an idea could come from anyone born on this earth. She blinked, pulled from her thoughts. Diona was gone. So was her noise. But Tony stayed – still, grounded, and present, like a man who knew exactly where he stood in the world.

Then, with the kind of ease that only comes from confidence, he loosened the tie that had been strangling his neck all day. His fingers moved slowly, with purpose. One button. Another. Then a third. Just enough. The shirt opened slightly, revealing a line of skin – warm, golden, almost unreal in the soft light. Maraya turned toward him, drawn by instinct more than choice. Her gaze lingered. She let herself look. The curve of his throat, the hint of collarbone, the breath just beneath his skin. Heat stirred in her chest, low and quiet, but unmistakable. Tony saw it, even felt it, maybe, but didn’t react. No smirk. No invitation. Just that steady, unreadable presence. And that, somehow, was what made it impossible to ignore. He dropped the rest of his uniform like it was never part of him and dove into the pool – clean, silent, sharp. The water welcomed him as if it had been waiting for him.

Two or three girls clapped. Maraya’s mouth stayed slightly open. She hadn’t expected that, and that’s why she watched him longer. Something about the way he moved… gliding under the water surface like it belonged to it. His entire presence pulled at her—calm on the surface, impossible to read, but deep underneath, you could feel the fire. He was the kind of man who could light a fire just by being still. Dripping wet, he sat across from her, his presence louder than any sentence he could say. She stared, caught mid-thought, her mind refusing to function. This man… this being… shifted personalities as if it were nothing. One moment, chauffeur. The next – a creature made of fire and discipline. And somehow, none of it felt like a show. It felt real….Real in a way that made her nervous. She rose too fast, like a flame flickering upward, like she had to move before the feeling swallowed her whole. But just as she turned to leave, his hand slid around her wrist. Warm. Firm. Electric. It wasn’t a grip. It was a claim. A moment suspended in touch. His fingers didn’t press. They settled – just enough to remind her she was still there. Still seen and still wanted.

“My shift ended the moment I hit that water,” he said, voice quiet, sure, unshakable. “I’m off duty now. And I don’t have much time before I’m back on.”

Maraya met his gaze. It was like falling into a current. He didn’t check her out. Didn’t flinch. His eyes held hers with that unnerving stillness, like he saw things others missed and chose not to say a word. He didn’t cross a line. Didn’t even lean toward it. Maybe she wasn’t his type. Perhaps he was gay. Maybe he was just carved from something unreachable.

She gave up guessing. Diona would soon play matchmaker and most likely find her a man. That was the one thing she could count on. But Tony? He had already left something in her …quiet, invisible, but deep. And yet… she had no idea how to pull it loose.

At exactly eight in the evening, the three of them—Diona, Maraya, and Omar—met in front of the restaurant where they had long had a reservation.

Diona was dressed in an intriguing, multifunctional outfit—a long formal skirt with a deep slit reaching up to her waist revealed a short mini skirt of the same fabric underneath, while the upper part continued into a bodysuit that ended in a single strap. The fabric was white and emphasized her even tan. The provocative, well-defined curves of her body were undeniably tempting. Maraya had to admit—her cousin had a sense of fashion. A massive antique gold medallion hung from her elegant neck, its contour accentuated by her beautifully arranged hair in a tight bun shaped like a flower. Sleekly pulled back, it revealed a smooth forehead and a well-maintained, carefully made-up face, where the most striking feature was her black eyes, burning with intensity. She wore excessively high thin heels, highlighting her elegant ankles. The woman looked like pure temptation.

Omar couldn’t take his eyes off her, but he didn’t fail to compliment Maraya as well. There was still a certain gentlemanly behavior in him—especially since he was the only man in the company.

The play of light delicately revealed the shape of her chest without forcing the male gaze to focus there. She had chosen golden high-heeled shoes, just as thin as Diona’s, and in her hand she carried a small clutch that matched them perfectly. In her hair, woven into her loose Greek-style bun, shimmered a satin ribbon in a golden tone that almost resembled a metallic accessory.

Maraya’s outfit and demeanor created the illusion of a Greek mythological goddess descended to Earth for amusement. She wore no necklace, and a light golden gloss on her shoulders enhanced their shape even further.

Diona looked at her questioningly, and Maraya understood she was about to ask about the medallion. She preempted her, smiled, and showed her wrist, where the same piece of jewelry had been attached to a gold bracelet.

“I didn’t want us to be identical in our accessories, but there was no way I wouldn’t wear the medallion. Since I knew you’d use it as a necklace, I chose to wear it as a bracelet. That way I’m with you—but I don’t look like a pale imitation trying to copy you…”

“I’ve always adored the sharpness and agility of your mind, Maraya!”

It seemed Diona had given a sincere compliment to another woman in the presence of a man, which deeply impressed Omar. He was used to women in these circles smiling at each other, exchanging polite but false words, only to tear each other apart later through gossip and malice. This group seemed to feed on provocation and negativity.

“What nonsense,” Omar thought. His own reaction surprised him—he normally didn’t reflect on morality or social behavior. Maraya provoked him to think, and he had been taught that thinking was for the poor—those who had to struggle with life’s challenges. “Normal” people didn’t waste time thinking; they solved problems through hired professionals and money. According to this philosophy, drilled into him since childhood, time shouldn’t be wasted on unnecessary reflection but focused entirely on building the “right connections with the right people,” naturally in the relaxed setting of parties and dinners. The serious business side was left to lawyers, image-makers, and an army of staff.

After dinner—which was a masterpiece of culinary art and exceptionally delicious—Diona simply gestured to the waiter to add the bill to their room account. Omar quickly winked at her and told her everything had already been taken care of, as this was one of his father’s businesses that he managed.

“Consider it advertising! You, ladies, will bring me many clients. Who wouldn’t want to pay for an evening like this—with you?”

“That’s the morality of these spoiled brats…” she thought, and didn’t hesitate to voice her opinion—without causing a scene.

Diona fell silent. Omar grew visibly uncomfortable and began explaining that he hadn’t meant it that way, that his thoughts had simply tangled. In any case, other women might not have noticed the phrasing, but thanks to her, he now saw the need to express himself more carefully—and he would keep that in mind.

This woman truly made him think—and it irritated him. On top of that, she was right. She allowed herself too much, despite not having even a quarter of Diona’s resources, who behaved politely and didn’t respond so directly. These thoughts circled in Omar’s mind after the minor misunderstanding, and he began to realize that something in his social circle was fundamentally wrong.

Thanks to Maraya, the conversation shifted into a lighter tone—a clear example of how an intelligent person can provoke, twist, and control almost any situation while always coming out “dry.” Leading a discussion or argument required a deep understanding of different types of people, a broad worldview, and a rich vocabulary.

Of course, none of that was on the list of priorities for most empty-headed, pleasure-obsessed heirs.

Both Diona and Omar were wealthy by society’s standards, but the difference was that he had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, while Diona had carved her own path to wealth and recognition—using questionable means. It wasn’t something to be proud of, but it still required a plan and a certain level of intelligence…

                                                        ***

Despite the headphones she was wearing, Maraya could hear the buzzing of the helicopter, and she didn’t like it, but she did enjoy the nighttime view. Dubai was worth it and filled her senses. The artificially constructed islands, floating over the water in various shapes, featured vacation villas or private estates that sparkled beautifully, casting reflections of their lights on the water’s surface and creating a magical effect. After a little less than an hour of circling, Diona squealed that it was time to head to the next destination. They landed on the flat roof of a building, and beneath them, the bass from the music in the nightclub was clearly and distinctly thumping.

Upon entering, they immediately caused a stir among the already warmed-up youths, who were sipping drinks and dancing on a mezzanine level of a strangely structured nightclub. Everything suggested that access to the mezzanine they were on was not for everyone. Below it, slightly wider and larger, was another such level, and at the very bottom was a huge dance floor, packed with all sorts of people, crammed together like animals, dancing in a frenzy. The DJ’s area was located on the opposite wall, with two small booths on either side, each featuring a tiny personal dance floor, apparently for the dancers, the DJ’s team, and the DJ’s guests. The neon lights and the massive mirrored wall, which started above the second level, gave the atmosphere a futuristic feel. On the upper floors of the club, everything was furnished in natural white leather, which changed color depending on the lights shining on it in rhythm with the music.

As soon as they settled into their separate booth specially prepared for them, they were served ridiculously expensive champagne placed on ice, a fruit platter heaped with fruits, a huge tray with small bites suitable for the wine they were drinking, and not long after, their bartender appeared, pushing a beautifully crafted metal cart, from which he transferred all kinds of bottles and tools, arranging them on a decently sized bar specially attached to their booth. Maraya had never seen such furnishing anywhere else. She accepted her drinks, quickly made from the freshest ingredients or aged alcohols, directly from the skilled and experienced bartender. She regularly thanked him, and Diona slipped an extra banknote into his lapel pocket every time. The older cousin had perfectly learned the norms of behavior in such situations and didn’t let the reputation she had built over time fall, so she almost constantly watched. Maraya – just in case her behavior provoked someone somehow, or God forbid, made someone start thinking. After all, people had come here to unwind and show off their success in front of the not-so-rich or lucky-born ones. The pyramidal structure worked flawlessly, like a well-maintained. Swiss watch mechanism, and nothing could disturb the order – or so the inhabitants of the upper levels thought. And below, the masses raged in some artificially created by the rhythm of the music’s magical ecstasy, obviously blinded by the numerous and powerful spotlights in different colors. None of these folks realized that with a single coordinated movement, they could collapse the top of the pyramid by shaking its foundation.

Out of nowhere, a man appeared and threw himself onto the booth next to Maraya, casually slinging his arm around the woman’s shoulders without even introducing himself or asking for permission to stay. She smiled and very skillfully twisted the intruder’s arm behind his back. Everything went dark for her, and when that happened, she neither felt pain nor thought clearly. With his arm twisted behind him, the intruder was very easily pushed outside the boundaries of the booth. To which he only snorted and promised they’d meet again.

The environment, the music, and all the pretentiousness started to get on her nerves. People introduced themselves to her, and others she was introduced to, and with some, she even had to dance. She heroically endured the situation for much longer than she thought she would. 

When she managed to break away for a moment from the half-drunk people clinging to her, she headed to the ladies’ room, which had a lounge area where women could fix their makeup and exchange a few gossip. She was unpleasantly surprised to see Diona and Omar leaning over to snort cocaine through a banknote rolled into a tube. Maraya said nothing but rushed to the elevator, intending to get to the roof for a breath of fresh air.

Somewhere along the way, a strong hand grabbed her and covered her mouth, and her reaction was to try to scream, kicking and hitting wildly, clearly against a stronger attacker. Since she wasn’t docile, she felt a heavy slap turn her head, and her cheek burned. From the strength of the blow, the woman knocked over a whole row of arranged glass figures, which fell with unimaginable noise. This drew the attention of a passerby, who turned out to be the bartender who had been servicing their booth for the last two hours already. He had been walking through this corridor to reach some kind of storage room or reserve space. After being a silent witness to the scene, he froze, and the attacker shoved him back and stuffed three or four banknotes into the pocket of his lapel, which made the witness quickly and quietly turn around and disappear.

In the dim light, Maraya recognized the intruder from earlier, who had become enraged and with wounded “male pride.” He slapped her again, then turned her to face him and tried to assault her violently. At this point, Maraya began screaming with all her might and started to pull away and thrash like a wild animal. She dug a heel somewhere into the legs of her assailant, and he grabbed her hair, painfully pulling her head back. That way, she could neither scream nor pull away.

At that moment, a hand appeared out of nowhere and separated the woman from her enraged and drunk attacker, throwing him with a powerful blow at least a meter to the side. Her makeup was smudged, her hair disheveled, and her clothes torn in the front. Maraya curled up in a corner, covering her head with her hands. She could only see blurred images of four legs moving and could hear a series of punches and groans. Without knowing who was winning and how the fight was progressing, the frightened and injured woman ran toward the exit of the room where the scene was taking place.

Shortly after, she felt someone pulling her again, but this time she slashed the flesh of her attacker with a small knife she always carried with her as a talisman. Then she heard the familiar voice of. Tony, who didn’t shout but gently asked her to calm down, and despite the situation, continued to use the polite form and speak to her with “you” formally. Maraya wiped her face with a napkin and saw more clearly that her eyes were not deceiving her and her brain wasn’t hallucinating. It was. Tony, but with a bleeding nose and a hand.

After he seated her on some decorative furniture, he moved a chunk of her hair aside from her face to assess the potential damage from the brutal assault. He took off his jacket and draped it over her to cover her half-naked torso, then gently lifted her in his arms and carried her somewhere. Maraya only now began to feel pain and humiliation, and started sobbing on his shoulder. At the same time, he quickly and skillfully made his way through the crowd to finally reach an underground parking lot and place the injured woman in his car. The last thing she remembered was a bleeding hand fastening the seat belt over her.

She woke up with a terrible headache, a bruised body, and in a hospital gown, and next to her, with a bandaged hand and a blood-stained shirt, was Tony.

“How are you?” – he asked, because, after such a night, it would be more than foolish to say “Good morning.”

Maraya turned her head to the other side, and tears streamed down her cheeks. A minute later, she composed herself and sincerely thanked the driver, who in turn told her that Diona had called him to make sure someone would take care of her cousin and bring her back to the hotel. He had tried to find their booth but chose a shorter route through the service areas. When he heard the strange sounds of a struggle and later the breaking of glass, which indicated that something unpleasant was happening, he arrived at the scene. The rest, Maraya could guess.

She found it interesting that no police officer had yet shown up to ask her for a statement about what happened the previous night. Tony just gave a sad smile and added:

“You won’t see one. ‘The rich never cry.’ The case will be privately settled through a mediator and the lawyers of your cousin and those of the man who attacked you. That’s how it works in these circles.”

“What? Do they think they’re above the law?!” – she shouted, furious and with contempt. “They are the law. The man who attacked you is a regional governor, and the district judge and local police commander are among his closest confidants, friends, and political supporters who have invested in him as a political figure.”

“Hey, let’s switch to informal, especially after what happened last night – there’s no point in these formalities anymore. I’m extremely grateful to you for your help, without which. I’d probably be lying abandoned in some ditch. God knows what. By the way, where is Diona now? I saw her in quite a compromising act…” – Maraya frowned.

“If you’re hinting at cocaine… Unfortunately, I’m aware. But that hasn’t happened in years. Omar and her company aren’t a good influence on her, which is why it is better if you go on that trip. The longer, the better for her. She’s not bad, even quite human compared to the rest of the scum… And when she has to make an important decision, she usually looks for her medallion, spinning it between her fingers while thinking. It’s some kind of special piece of jewelry that occasionally helps her not to get completely lost among this mob that calls itself the ‘elite’…”

Then Maraya made the connection. The medallion brought Diona back to her roots, to the family and upbringing she had received as a child, which ultimately prevailed when she had to make certain decisions. She explained the story behind the jewelry and showed hers, which was placed on the table next to her. Tony listened carefully. Her story was interrupted by a knock at the door, after which Diona herself appeared. She sat down next to Maraya on the hospital bed and told her:

“The doctors said you got away with just bruises and fright. Thanks to. Tony, who’s always in the right place at the right time.”

She turned and leaned in to kiss him on the lips. Still, he pulled away, clearly showing that after the previous night, everything had changed, and he was no longer interested in anything besides his professional duties, strictly as a security guard and driver. For Diona, this didn’t matter much, since after all, Tony was just “a bedtime amusement on rainy days.”

Two days after the incident, there was still no trace of Omar, and Diona had explained that what Maraya saw – her episode with the cocaine – had been a moment of weakness and hadn’t happened in years. As for the planned trip, it would take place whenever. Maraya felt ready and wished for it. As for the rest, the lawyers on both sides had agreed on moral compensation, which had already been transferred to a newly opened bank account in Maraya’s name. As a bonus, they also received a weekend at a luxurious French hotel. Naturally, Tony would accompany them.

Maraya listened to the rapid-fire information and didn’t rush to respond. There was no point. She saw how powerless and rotten this system was and how she couldn’t fight it. She wasn’t entirely desperate, because history and time never left the guilty unpunished. Facts had proved that. Past civilizations, suffering from similar corruption, had collapsed precisely because of human perversion and greed, even though they were at the peak of their development. It would happen again sooner or later. Hopefully, the next ones will be wiser.