Aanya’s Perspective:
Mr. Rout withdrew his hand, and in the softest tone I had ever heard from him, he asked, “Are you okay?” His words were laced with genuine concern, a stark contrast to the anger that had initially flared in his eyes. It was as though he had set aside his frustration and anger to genuinely inquire about my well-being.
Mr. Rout’s voice cut through my reverie, snapping me back to the reality of the masquerade ball. His question, whether I was okay, hung in the air like a fragile thread, and for a moment, I considered brushing it off. I knew I couldn’t afford to let my vulnerability show. With a soft but assured tone, I replied, “I’m okay.” It was a simple response, but one that concealed the tumultuous thoughts swirling within me. I settled back into my seat, determined to maintain my composure.
As I scanned the opulent ballroom, I noticed a peculiar shift in the atmosphere. Every male guest seemed to be deeply engrossed in conversation, their masks now resting on the table before them. It was as though they had shed their personas along with their masks, revealing the faces of business people who were, in all likelihood, entangled in the world of organized crime.
Most of the women in the room had followed suit, their masks set aside as they mingled with the men. Yet, a group of women dressed in sharp black suits stood out. They exuded an aura of authority, and I assumed they were the bodyguards, ever-watchful protectors of the elite members present at today’s party.
Amidst the crowd, a few women still clung to their masks. It was a stark contrast that made me slightly uncomfortable. I empathized with their decision; standing out in a room where unveiling one’s identity was the norm was a bold statement. Had I not been tasked with discreetly observing everyone, I might have felt the urge to remove my own mask to blend in more naturally.
My anxiety ebbed slightly when I realized I wasn’t alone in my choice. Other women also wore their masks, and I felt a strange camaraderie with them. Anisha and I were, for the most part, hidden within the crowd, our identities concealed behind the masks that masked our true intentions.
My focus was jolted once more when Mr. Rout, with a distinct throat-clearing, demanded my attention. His voice was now as hard as stone, a stark contrast to the more placid tone he’d adopted earlier.
“You are not here to daydream or whatever it was you were doing,” he admonished. His words cut through the air like a blade. “You’re here for a purpose-to observe our surroundings and the members of the Dagger Syndicate.”
His reminder was stern and laced with a certain impatience.
He continued, his words cutting through the air with a sharp edge, “I’m well aware that you may not have even noticed where the members are seated.”
Meeting his gaze, I responded with a steely resolve, “They’re seated on the third table from ours, directly in front.” I nodded my head in their direction, signifying the table that held the enigmatic figures of the Dagger Syndicate. However, Mr. Rout remained unmoved, his gaze locked onto mine, refusing to turn and acknowledge their presence.
His mounting anger, fueled by my response, flared up, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was experiencing some form of mood swings. It was a peculiar rollercoaster of emotions I had noticed in him-a stark contrast between his moments of sweetness and his bouts of harshness.
Understanding these mood swings, while potentially advantageous for my quest for revenge, also poses a significant risk. It was crucial to maintain control over the situation, for any loss of control could jeopardize not only my mission but my very life.
His unpredictable behavior was a double-edged sword. While it was far from ideal for the delicate web of intrigue I was spinning for my revenge, it also posed a potential threat to my life if his emotions spiraled out of control.
I couldn’t help but wonder if there were deeper forces at play here.
Setting aside the perplexity of his unpredictable mood swings, I redirected my attention to the room and zeroed in on the members of the Dagger Syndicate.
Suddenly, as I scanned the room, a thought flashed into my mind.
As I observed this ceremonial unveiling, a profound sense of respect and awe enveloped the room. The act of removing their masks, while a customary display of reverence, held deeper implications. It was a public acknowledgment of Mr. Rout’s power and influence. Anyone witnessing this ritual could discern that he was a man of tremendous authority.
The unmasking of Mr. Rout conveyed a message to all present – that they were in the presence of a figure not to be trifled with.
If these individuals recognized Mr. Rout’s power, it was entirely plausible that they were aware of his position as the head of one of the most formidable and influential criminal organizations in existence. The magnitude of this revelation piqued my curiosity, stoking the fires of my desire to delve deeper into the shadows.
After a silent internal debate that lasted a full fifteen minutes, I shifted my focus back to Mr. Rout, who remained vigilant, his neutral and cold expression still firmly in place. Following his earlier cue, I cleared my throat to draw his attention.
“Uuuhhh… I was wondering,” I began tentatively, my curiosity driving me to voice the question that had been nagging at me since the unmasking ritual. Mr. Rout turned his gaze from the room to me, acknowledging my inquiry with a nod.
I pressed on, my voice steady now, “By simply observing this act of respect, it becomes quite apparent that you’re the most influential individual in this room. That’s precisely why every person here removed their mask.” I paused briefly to gather my thoughts before continuing, “Wouldn’t it then be easy to assume that you are the leader of one of the largest and most formidable criminal organizations known to date?”
My words hung in the air, the weight of the unspoken truth settling around us.
Mr. Rout fixed his gaze on me for a few moments after I’d finished speaking, and then, without a word, he resumed his survey of the room. As the seconds ticked away in silence, my initial assumption took root – perhaps he wouldn’t respond to my query.
Just as I started to avert my eyes, thinking our conversation had concluded, he finally spoke. His words were measured and carried a weight of authority. “Yes, it’s quite easy for people to assume that I’m the strongest or at least one of the strongest individuals in this room,” he conceded, his tone still holding a hint of that detached coolness.
“But,” he continued, his gaze once again sweeping the room, “here’s the crucial point. While many may recognize the existence of three criminal organizations overseeing the others, they remain in the dark about the details. They know names, but they don’t know the faces, the leaders, or the inner workings. So, even if they perceive me as influential or powerful, it’s a hollow assumption if they lack any substantial knowledge about my organization or myself. In essence, knowing that I’m here and recognizing my strength doesn’t grant them any leverage or capability to harm us.”
His words carried a sense of finality, as though he’d imparted a valuable lesson. I absorbed this information, recognizing the intricate web of secrecy that enshrouded this criminal underworld. It was a complex dance, where appearances could be deceiving, and true power lay in the concealed depths.
His explanation resonated with me, but it also raised new questions. After all, my role here wasn’t just to observe but to gather information, and this seemed like an opportunity to dig deeper.
Without a second thought, I asked him the question that had formed in my mind. “What if someone here assumes that you might be the leader of one of the organizations within the Trio Group? What if they decide to follow you, to dig for information? After all, they know your face, and in this world, knowing someone’s face is often the first step to uncovering their secrets.”
His raised eyebrow served as a subtle reminder that came to my mind that one should always think before one speaks.
He sighed, as if contemplating how much information he should divulge, and then began to respond. “First of all, my dear, if anyone in this room recognizes this face, they would sooner dare not to utter a word, let alone attempt to dig for information. We operate under a code of silence and secrecy that is ironclad.”
He paused, his gaze intensifying, as if he wanted to emphasize the gravity of his next words. “But, for those who don’t know or let their curiosity drive them to the brink of recklessness,” he continued, fixing me with an intense stare as if referring the last to my curious question, “they should understand that the Sniper Mafia doesn’t come into existence by mere chance. We are a force that has thrived through the ages, and anyone attempting to uncover our secrets is, in essence, inviting their own demise.”
His last words carried a weight of danger and seriousness that sent a shiver down my spine. However, I was careful not to let my reaction show on my face.
With Mr. Rout’s response hanging in the air, I chose to shift my focus away from him and concentrate on the task at hand. As I scanned the room, my eyes fell upon someone I had never expected to find in this place.