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I hovered in the doorway, peering in. A Mondian woman I didn’t recognize bustled about directing the preparations, tasting sauces and checking oven temperatures. The chef was nowhere to be seen, yet no one questioned his disappearance.
“You!” the woman barked, catching sight of me gawking. “Don’t just stand there staring, girl. Make yourself useful and start chopping garnish.”
She shoved a cutting board loaded with colorful vegetables into my hands. I fumbled for words, but no explanation came. Ducking my head submissively, I carried the board to a prep station and diced vegetables, hands trembling.
Did I imagine everything? Was the terror and guilt tormenting me just a vivid dream? But no, I still felt the phantom weight of the blaster in my palm, smelled the acrid smoke and tasted the chef’s blood in the air. It was horrifyingly real.
So where was the outrage, the manhunt for his killer? Why was the kitchen staff calmly prepping dinner as if this was any normal day? It made no sense.
Unless... could Tazhr and Makar truly have erased all traces of my crime so flawlessly in mere hours? Had the body vanished as if it never existed, the grisly evidence somehow wiped away?
I didn’t know whether to weep with relief or scream in frustration at being robbed of any closure. I was Schrodinger’s killer—simultaneously guilty and exonerated. The uncertainty was maddening.
But I hid my turmoil well. Outwardly, I was the picture of obedience, silently chopping and fetching and serving without complaint. Anything to avoid notice or suspicion.
The absence of questions surrounding the chef’s disappearance seemed proof enough of Tazhr’s claim. By some miracle, Makar cleaned the scene thoroughly, disposing of all remnants of the murder. No one but they and I knew the truth. And for now, I had to keep pretending I was equally oblivious.
The hours dragged by excruciatingly. I flinched each time footsteps approached, certain my guilt was obvious to anyone who looked closely. Yet the staff remained cheery and oblivious. My secret remained secure, buried beneath layers of lies and subterfuge.
I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop—Conii to return home early and demand answers no one could provide. Or for someone to stumble across evidence the Vinduthi overlooked. But the evening passed without incident, my role in it seemingly erased.
Finally, the dinner service ended, and I was permitted to slink off to my quarters for the night, exhausted mentally and physically. Tomorrow I would have to do this all again, maintaining the ruse that nothing was amiss. Smile blankly, feign ignorance, trust Tazhr’s assurances that I was safe.
One day down, a lifetime still ahead. The thought kept me tossing and turning all night, pondering the impossibility of my new reality. I was a killer living on borrowed time, my fragile freedom purchased with another’s blood. The few fitful hours of sleep I managed were haunted by visions of the chef’s accusing stare as the light drained from his eyes.
Morning came too soon, the cheery dawn at odds with my bleak mood. With leaden feet, I dragged myself to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. I felt certain my guilt and shame must be etched on my face for all to see.
But again, no one at breakfast gave any indication of suspicion or distress. The guards milled about stone-faced as always. The kitchen staff laughed and joked as they prepared plates. When Conii herself swept imperiously into the room, not a flicker of worry creased her ageless features.
My stomach roiled at being so close to her, the architect of all the chaos and misery in my life. Acting normal in her presence took every ounce of willpower. But I knew any twitch or stammer could prove fatal, so I forced myself to meet her serpentine gaze unflinchingly.
After an endless meal where I choked down each bite, Conii departed, off to attend to more pressing business than her obedient humans. The knot in my chest finally loosened once she disappeared from view.
I spent the day dreading her return, certain somehow she would discern my deceit and guilt. But the hours passed uneventfully. Wherever Conii was, investigating the chef’s absence wasn’t a priority. Likely, she assumed he’d turn up sooner or later with some excuse about an illness or family emergency. She considered us all interchangeable servants.
I almost envied her that callous indifference now. What I wouldn’t give to view the chef’s death with the same casual disinterest, just another minor staffing issue of no real consequence.
But for me the visions still lurked behind each mundane task, threatening to overwhelm me if I didn’t keep rigid focus. Chopping vegetables, scrubbing floors, washing dishes—single-minded concentration on each mind-numbing chore was all that kept madness at bay.
That night I lay sleepless for hours again, thoughts racing feverishly. Was this watchful paranoia my new normal? Would I spend my remaining days on this station constantly peering over my shoulder, flinching at shadows? Perhaps eventually I’d grow numb like Conii and forget I ever valued life.
A humorless laugh escaped my lips at the irony. I wanted excitement, a chance to play detective and prove myself clever. But I now understood the terrible price paid by those who dared disrupt the natural order. My childish quest for “adventure” warped me, opening a door that could never be shut again.
Sometimes ignorance really was bliss. I yearned for the oblivious days when chopping and scrubbing were the peak of excitement, not the tricks I played to keep my mind distracted.
But it was too late for regrets. The only way out was forward, through the maze of deception I’d chosen to enter. Trusting Tazhr was my lifeline. Without him, I’d surely drown in guilt.
With that dismal thought, I finally drifted off as the pale light of dawn crept into my spartan quarters. But my reprieve was short-lived. Mere hours later, the morning bells jolted me from fitful sleep to start another day of charades.
By the third morning after the murder, the anxious edge dulled slightly, my mind and body accepting this tense new status quo as an inescapable reality. The chef’s death was the monster under my bed—unseen but always lurking.
My jumps and flinches when anyone approached faded, replaced by a weary numbness. I was a prisoner in my own mind, an endless loop of gruesome memories I couldn’t voice.
But even that became monotonous in its own warped way. The first day felt momentous, each following one less and less remarkable. My coworkers remained oblivious, Conii aloof. No revelation or reckoning occurred. The crime simply vanished without a trace, as if it never happened at all.
By the fifth day, I felt lulled into a kind of twilight state, simultaneously hyper aware, yet detached. I moved through each day mechanically, an actress performing grief and shock I no longer felt. Only the nagging fear of what Conii might do if she uncovered the truth still pierced the haze.
Surely she’d scour the station for answers if she suspected foul play. The lack of inquisition or retaliation meant we were still safe. For now.
