The room was circular.
Spacious.
Every wall curved gently into the next, leaving no corners, no shadows, and no hidden space beyond sight.
Above the blood-red marble mantelpiece—veined with jagged streaks of black and gold—stood a golden vulture.
Its hooked beak was slightly lowered, as though waiting for the precise moment to strike.
Its talons remained locked around an invisible prey.
Its widespread wings cast a broad shadow across the polished marble.
Its ruby eyes glowed with an unsettling brilliance, the only seemingly living feature in an otherwise lifeless metallic form.
From the mantelpiece, the jeweled vulture overlooked the entire room.
So did its owner.
He sat upright in the regal chair, dressed in a pristine grey shalwar kameez with a rich wool shawl draped gracefully across one shoulder.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ0920947jny
His dark eyes remained fixed ahead, cold and unreadable.
Heavy stone rings rested on his fingers, catching the warm glow from the hearth as he spoke into his phone.
His voice boomed through the circular room, amplified by its unusual acoustics.11Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2c6U8SfpLL
Rooms like these had long been favoured by certain families, where even an ordinary sentence carried the weight of a command.
"Be his shadow."
A pause.
"I want to know where he goes."
"Whom he meets."
"Who comes to his house."
"Who leaves it."
"I want everything."
His eyes drifted towards the golden vulture.
"Those eyes of yours will not be enough to obey my words."
"The ones you possess are no longer sufficient."
"Seek out someone who knows how to use the other eyes."
"And the other ears."
"Eyes that remain above him."
"Below him."
"Around him."
He paused.
"Miss nothing."
Another silence followed.
"I've just sent you his photograph."
"Save it."
"Remember his face."
A tense quiet settled over the room.
Then the person on the other end asked a hesitant question.
The man shifted in his regal chair.
His chest rose once.
His fingers tightened around the phone.
"Since when..."
His heavy voice thundered through the circular room.
"...have you started questioning my orders?"
On the other end of the line, the person forgot to breathe.
"I gave you an instruction."
"I wasn't asking for your opinion."
"It seems you've forgotten your place..."
"...and mine."
The person hurried into a desperate, stammering apology.
The man rose from his chair.
The wood creaked softly beneath him.
"If you had been standing before me..."
"...I would have cracked the whip."
"Remember your place."
The call ended.
A sharp click echoed through the circular room.
He walked slowly towards the mantelpiece.
His hand came to rest on the cold, polished gold of the vulture.
The fire continued to burn quietly inside the hearth below.
Its warmth never reached him.
One corner of his mouth curled into a sharp, lopsided smirk.
His gaze shifted from the golden vulture to the photograph glowing on his phone.
He studied the face in silence.
Unlike the statue...
...he could blink.
He simply chose not to
Author’s Note: Some conversations happen over coffee. Others happen in rooms with no corners.
Thank you for following along.
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