CHAPTER 288: CHAPTER 287: PARANOIA

He turned to face the system screen again, as if daring it to show him more.

But nothing.

It was blank now, silent.

Yet the last words burned in his mind like they had been carved there with a hot blade.

"This world is a board. Those families are the players. The rest are pieces."

A bitter laugh escaped his mouth, dry and cracked. "Guess that makes me... a piece that just learned it can move."

The humor faded quickly. He sank back into the chair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His breathing was slow but heavy, as if every inhale carried weight. Then, almost involuntarily, he muttered, "Fifty million? I would’ve traded ten times that for this."

On the coffee table, a crystal bowl of fruit sat perfectly arranged. Grapes at the center, apples circling them like a crown. An arrangement straight out of a Renaissance painting... subtle, regal, almost ceremonial.

The desk by the wall held a brass globe. It wasn’t for spinning idly... its countries were marked with delicate gold lines, certain cities dotted in ruby red. He traced them with his eyes: Hong Kong. Geneva. Dubai. New York. Capitals not of nations, but of wealth.

On the table, an art book lay open to a painting of Louis XIV, the Sun King, standing in full regalia. The page’s corner was folded, deliberately or not. Across from it, a discreet gold clock ticked in absolute silence... power here didn’t rush; it waited.

Above the minibar hung a framed photograph of a chess tournament from the 1970s. Two men sat across from each other... one in a tailored suit, the other in military uniform. The caption read: "A game for history." The winner was never mentioned.

Near the door, a polished coat rack stood unused, its hooks carved into the shape of falcon heads. Falcons... predators trained to hunt at command. The symbolism wasn’t subtle.

Even the carpet had a pattern he hadn’t noticed before: concentric squares radiating outward, like a maze or a fortress. From the center, the lines led only one way... outward, as if from a single seat of power.

He stood again. His skin felt tight, his thoughts too loud. The wall seems too close. He felt suffocated. He needed air, or space, or just something that wasn’t this room.

His feet carried him into the hallway, but his mind wasn’t following the same rhythm.

Stepping into the hallway, he slowed, and for the first time, noticed the paintings hanging on the wall.

One depicted a masked ball in 18th-century Venice. The guests were draped in gold-threaded costumes, their masks painted in bright colors. From a distance, they looked joyous, caught mid-laughter. But up close, their eyes were cold, calculating. The masks weren’t just decoration... they were weapons. A way to smile while plotting your opponent’s fall.

Another painting showed an old banking family from Florence. The father sat in a high-backed chair, one hand resting atop a globe, the other holding a heavy ledger. The son, standing beside him, gripped a quill over a map. The brushstrokes seemed to say it plainly: the father controlled the world, the son wrote its future. Wealth and words, war and diplomacy... all in one frame.

Farther down the hall, a smaller frame caught his attention. A black-and-white photograph of a railway being constructed through a desert. Workers in the foreground sweated under the sun, while in the background, two well-dressed men shook hands beside a steam engine. One built the empire, the other owned it.

Feeling a bit heavy and parched, he stepped into the kitchen, only to pause again.

On the fridge was a magnet shaped like a pyramid. He’d seen magnets like these countless times, thinking nothing of it. Just a tacky souvenir. But now, it felt like a message. The kind that had been sitting in plain sight for years, waiting for him to understand. Power concentrated at the top, endless layers beneath.

He opened the cabinet for a glass of water, and the mug he grabbed wasn’t random...it was the one with the quote: "All the world’s a stage." Shakespeare. He stared at it for a long moment, the words feeling less like a literary flourish and more like a set of instructions.

It may not have been the intention of the decorator, but to him, everything seemed to whisper certain secrets... quiet messages woven into furniture, art, and light. Every object was a symbol, every detail a hint, as though the hotel itself had been waiting for him to finally see it.

Pouring the water, he took a big gulp, shaking his head to remove all these thoughts from his mind.

Back in the room, his finger brushed against the curtain. Seeing the bright sunlight outside, he paused. The city basked in gold, but to him it looked staged, too clean, too precise... like a painting where every building had been placed with deliberate intent. Somewhere out there, he thought, someone was watching the same view but from the other side.

He let the curtain fall and turned away from the window. The sense of being observed hadn’t faded. He crossed to the minibar, uncorked a small bottle of deep red wine, and poured just enough to coat the bottom of the glass.

The liquid caught the overhead light, glinting like blood under water. He took a slow sip, the rich taste stirring something restless in him, as if it carried a weight he couldn’t name.

His eyes flicked to the mirror on the wall... a clean, tasteful rectangle framed in dark wood. His own reflection stared back, but the longer he looked, the more it seemed there was a second layer, as if the glass itself remembered the faces of others who had stood here before him.

He exhaled slowly. He knew he wasn’t in danger, especially with the trusted security company given by the system. But something told him this room wasn’t as private as it seemed. Even the air carried a faint weight, like conversations had been soaked into its walls over years of whispered deals.

The red strings still floated faintly in his mind’s eye, connecting everything... the globe, the chessboard city outside, the falcon hooks, the pyramid. Families, corporations, governments. None of them separate. None of them free.

Somewhere along that web, he was now a part.

(End of Chapter)