Forbidden Rules

"What the hell is this?" Rick muttered, his brow furrowing in annoyance as he glanced down at the polished face of his Patek Philippe. It was a reflexive, almost compulsive gesture he'd developed, a way of grounding himself in the tangible reality of his success. The watch wasn't just for telling time; it was a statement, a testament to his arrival.

But the man reflected on its sapphire crystal surface wasn't him.

The "Rick" in the reflection was smiling at him. It wasn't his own tense, self-assured smirk. This was something else entirely. A slow, deliberate stretching of the lips into an impossible, predatory arc. A welcome steeped in malice. The reflection's eyes held no mirth, only a vast, inky blackness—a profound, all-knowing indifference that seemed to see straight through his tailored suit and into the very core of his ambition.

Rick flinched back violently, his spine slamming against the cold, brushed-steel wall of the elevator. The impact sent a jolt through his body, a primal shock that momentarily silenced the confident voice in his head.

He blinked, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stared at his watch again. The reflection was normal now, perfectly mimicking his own wide-eyed, panicked expression. The faint, tinny music-box melody that had been threading through the silence was gone too. The elevator was utterly quiet, save for the sound of his own ragged, desperate breaths.

"A hallucination... it must be a hallucination..." he whispered, the words feeling foreign and flimsy in his mouth. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead, a humiliating betrayal by his own body. He scrambled for a rational explanation, a narrative he could control.

"The elevators here are too advanced," he reasoned aloud, his voice gaining a shaky confidence. "It's probably some kind of... some kind of AR, an augmented reality welcome ceremony. Yes, that's it! A psychological test for new residents. To see if they can handle the pressure." He nodded to himself, forcing the absurd theory to take root. "Of course. This is the Tower of Bliss, a residence for the global elite. Even their hazing rituals are this creative. It's brilliant, actually."

He clung to this ridiculous explanation because the alternative—admitting he was terrified, that his meticulously constructed composure had been shattered by a simple reflection—was an intolerable insult to his identity as a "successful man." He was Rick Chen, a man who bent reality to his will, not one who was frightened by shadows.

He straightened his Italian silk tie, forcing his lips into a calm, composed smile. But the terror in his eyes was a stubborn stain, a lingering ghost he couldn't banish. The elevator's silent ascent felt less like a journey upward and more like a descent into something unknown. The air, recycled and sterile, seemed to grow heavy, pressing in on him.

Ding.

The elevator arrived at the 41st floor. The doors slid open with a whisper-quiet hiss, revealing a corridor that seemed to swallow the light. The floor was covered in a thick, blood-red carpet that muffled his footsteps, making him feel like an intruder in a sacred, silent space. The walls were adorned with oil paintings in a grotesque, unsettling style. In each portrait, the subjects—pale, aristocratic figures with hollow eyes—wore smiles that were unnervingly similar to the one he'd just seen on his watch. They were smiles of conspiratorial amusement, as if they were all in on a joke and he was the punchline.

An strange scent permeated the air, a complex blend of old books, sandalwood, and... something else. A faint, cloying, metallic tang he couldn't quite place. It tickled the back of his throat. Iron rust. Or dried blood.

"It's not horror," Rick corrected himself mentally, his voice a frantic whisper in his own mind. "It's... curated atmosphere. Thematic design." He bolstered his courage with the language of art auctions and high-end marketing, but his steps felt unsteady, his expensive leather shoes feeling like lead weights as he walked toward Room 4104 at the end of the hall.

The brass doorknob was shockingly cold to the touch, a jolt of ice that shot up his arm. He swiped his electronic key card. The lock chirped a pleasant, melodic mechanical tone, a sound of normalcy in a world that was rapidly tilting off its axis. The door swung open.

The sheer luxury of the room managed to dispel some of his lingering fear. A panoramic, floor-to-ceiling window displayed the glittering, star-strewn galaxy of the entire city below. It was a breathtaking vista, as if he were standing on a celestial balcony, a platform for a god to survey the mortal realm. This was what he had worked for. This was power.

Like a child on Christmas morning, he spun around the room, his hands brushing over the surfaces of the expensive furniture—the cool marble of the countertop, the soft, supple leather of the sofa, the polished grain of the ebony coffee table—to confirm the reality of it all. This was his. He had earned it.

Finally, his gaze landed on a black leather folder resting in the center of a Zitan wood table in the living room. On its cover, embossed in gleaming gold leaf, were the words:

THE TOWER OF BLISS: RESIDENT HANDBOOK

"Here comes the main event," Rick said, rubbing his hands together. The fear was now completely replaced by a thrill of anticipation. He had heard the rumors, of course. Whispers in exclusive clubs and on private jets about the Tower of Bliss and its mysterious, stringent set of unwritten rules. They said it was the ultimate filter, a secret society that used these codes to weed out the unworthy, to separate the truly elite from the merely rich. He didn't see it as a threat; he saw it as an honor, a game of unspoken understanding among the powerful. A ritual.

He sank into the plush sofa, the leather sighing under his weight, and eagerly opened the handbook.

The first page was a welcome message in the same elegant gold font:

Welcome, Mr. Rick Chen. We are honored to have you as a distinguished member of the Tower of Bliss. Here, you will enjoy unprecedented tranquility and privacy.

Rick nodded in satisfaction, a smug smile gracing his lips. "Tranquility and privacy." The words resonated with his desire for a life insulated from the noisy, grasping masses. He turned the page.

The second page was the table of contents.

Part I: Guide to Common Facilities

Part II: Property Services

Part III: Principles of Neighborly Conduct

Part IV: Forbidden Rules

His heart skipped a beat. Forbidden Rules. The name itself was a siren's call, filled with the seductive allure of the taboo. It sounded exclusive, dangerous, and incredibly cool. This, he knew, was the essence of the entire handbook, the key to the inner sanctum. Without a moment's hesitation, he flipped directly to Part IV.

He turned the page, his breath held in anticipation.

And then he just stared, his mind going completely blank.

The page, and every single page that followed it, was empty.

Pristine, heavy, high-quality paper that gleamed with the subtle sheen of luxury. But there was no text. No diagrams. Not even a single punctuation mark.

"What is this?" Rick frowned, flipping through the blank pages again and again as if the words might magically appear. He held the book up to the light, then pulled out his phone and shone its flashlight on the pages, searching for any hint of invisible ink or watermarks.

Nothing. It was just an expensive book of blank paper.

His initial frustration quickly morphed into something else. A spark of intrigue, then a blaze of excitement. "Performance art? Or maybe... the rules themselves are 'forbidden to be spoken'?" he mused aloud. The idea, far from alarming him, sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through his system. This was even better than he had imagined. It fit perfectly with his perception of the truly elite—their codes were so lofty, so profound, that they could not be sullied by mundane text. They had to be understood, intuited, earned.

"No problem," he declared to the empty room, puffing out his chest with renewed confidence. "Who am I? I'm Rick Chen. The king of reading people, a master of observation!" This wasn't a manual; it was a challenge. A large-scale, immersive puzzle game played by the old-money aristocrats. "So you want to play? Fine. I'm all in."

He carefully placed the blank handbook back on the table as if it were a priceless holy relic. He decided that starting tomorrow, he would take the initiative, "bumping into" his neighbors to decipher these invisible "Forbidden Rules" from their every word and action.

He was completely unaware that the 'thing' that had smiled at him in the elevator had already pressed the start button on his vanity-fueled treasure hunt.

And the audience was already in their seats.