Forbidden Rules

The library on the 30th floor was a sanctuary of order. Or so Rick believed. After the disquieting, organic chaos of the sky garden, the library's rigid structure felt like a balm to his frayed nerves. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, crafted from dark, fragrant mahogany, stood in silent, imposing rows, like ancient, slumbering giants. The air was cool and still, smelling of aged paper and leather polish. The only sound was the gentle, almost imperceptible hum of the climate control system. Here, in this temple of knowledge and reason, things had to make sense.

The vast room was empty. Rick felt a sense of relief. He could control the environment, set the stage for his next attempt. He browsed the shelves, his fingers tracing the spines of leather-bound classics, before randomly selecting a handsome, gold-leafed edition of Meditations by Marcus Aurelius. It was the perfect prop, projecting an image of quiet contemplation and intellectual depth. He chose a comfortable armchair by a large window, settled in, and arranged himself into a pose of profound concentration, waiting for his next "subject."

He didn't have to wait long. An elderly gentleman, his silver hair neatly combed and his posture ramrod straight, entered the library. He wore a tweed jacket and gold-rimmed spectacles, looking every bit the retired academic or tenured professor. He moved with a quiet dignity, his steps silent on the thick Persian rug. The man walked directly to a shelf, selected a heavy tome, and then, to Rick's delight, sat in the armchair diagonally opposite him.

Rick had learned his lesson. This time, there would be no glib anecdotes, no forward advances. He would be a creature of subtlety. He waited for the old gentleman to glance up, and when he did, Rick offered him a small, knowing smile—a silent acknowledgment of their shared intellectual pursuit, a gesture meant to convey "we are kindred spirits."

The old gentleman smiled back. It was a kind, warm, crinkle-eyed smile that instantly put Rick at ease. A wave of relief washed over him. This was going to work. He had found an ally, a normal person in this tower of eccentrics.

Now, for the masterstroke. He decided to initiate contact with a more refined, indirect method. He stood, pretending to stretch, and walked over to the bookshelf next to the old gentleman's chair, feigning a search for another book. With his back partially turned, he "accidentally" let his copy of Meditations slip from his grasp.

It fell to the polished marble floor with a loud CRACK.

In the tomb-like silence of the library, the sound was as sharp and violent as a gunshot. It echoed through the cavernous space, a brutal violation of the room's tranquility.

It was a perfectly designed accident, a harmless, natural way to break the ice and start a conversation. A simple "Oh, how clumsy of me," would surely follow.

But the reaction from the old gentleman was anything but natural.

The moment the sound hit the air, the man's kindly expression evaporated as if it were a mask that had been ripped from his face. His body began to tremble violently, a seizure-like convulsion that shook his entire frame. He stared at the book on the floor with an expression of absolute, primal terror, as if it were a venomous snake poised to strike. Then his terrified gaze shot to Rick, and the look in his eyes was one of a man staring at a monster.

His mouth opened wide, forming a silent scream, but the only sound that escaped his throat was a choked, gurgling gasp—"Hhhh... hhhh..."—like air leaking from a punctured lung.

Then, before Rick could even process what was happening, the man did something that would be seared into Rick's memory forever. He ripped the gold-rimmed glasses from his own face. With a guttural cry of effort, he clenched the frame in his fist and, with all his strength, plunged one of the sharp earpieces deep into his own ear.

Blood erupted from the ear canal in a sickening gush, spattering his tweed jacket and the pages of the book in his lap. Yet, through the agony, his eyes remained locked on Rick. And on his face, beneath the mask of supreme pain, was another expression, something Rick couldn't comprehend… was it relief? A look of profound, horrifying release?

Rick scrambled backward, a scream of pure terror caught in his throat. He fell over his own feet, landing hard on the floor. He didn't care about the book, about his dignity, about anything but escape. He crab-walked backward before lurching to his feet and fleeing the library, his heart threatening to explode in his chest. He sprinted to the elevator, hammering the call button with a sweaty palm, convinced that some unspeakable demon was chasing him down the hall.

"Madmen! This place is filled with nothing but complete and utter madmen!" he roared inside the confines of the elevator, his voice raw and distorted with fear.

Back in the sterile safety of Room 4104, he slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt, his body shaking uncontrollably. He collapsed onto the sofa, gasping for air, the bloody, surreal image from the library replaying in his mind like a looped horror film. It had completely shattered his defenses.

"Why? Why would he do that? Just because I dropped a book?"

He forced his panicked mind to rewind, to analyze. The problem wasn't the book. It was the sound. The sudden, sharp noise.

The second Forbidden Rule: Do not make any sudden noises in the library.

The realization sent a chill down his spine colder than any he had ever felt. The rules here weren't just social guidelines. The penalty for breaking them was... this? Such brutal, horrific self-mutilation?

Just when Rick thought his vanity had been drowned by fear, it resurfaced, twisting itself into a new, grotesque shape.

"This is a test," he whispered, his voice trembling. "It's the ultimate stress test for new residents! They're trying to scare away anyone who isn't strong enough. If I can just endure this, if I can prove I can adapt to their 'culture,' I'll be accepted! I can still win!"

This pathological self-hypnosis gave him a distorted kind of courage. He decided to make one last, and safest, attempt to regain some control: call for room service. An act of commerce. Simple, transactional, normal.

He pressed the call button on the wall panel. In less than thirty seconds, the doorbell chimed.

Standing outside was a young butler in a crisp, immaculate tuxedo, his face set in a polite, perfectly measured smile. He looked so reassuringly normal that Rick almost wept with relief.

Composing himself, Rick adopted the air of a privileged resident. "I require a pour-over coffee," he announced, his voice a little too loud. "Gesha village, anaerobic natural process. Water at 92.5 degrees Celsius. Grind setting 3.5." He deliberately listed a complex set of demands, a desperate attempt to reassert his sense of authority through professional jargon.

"As you wish, sir. One moment, please," the butler replied, his smile unwavering. He turned to leave.

"Wait," Rick called out, stopping him. He decided to ask the one question that burned at the center of his fear. "I wanted to ask about the Resident Handbook..."

He didn't get to finish the sentence. The smile on the butler's face did not change by a single millimeter, but his eyes instantly transformed. They became like the surface of a deep, frozen lake in midwinter—cold, profound, and bottomless. He offered no verbal reply. Instead, he reached into his pocket and produced a single, pristine white glove, which he slowly and deliberately pulled onto his right hand.

Then he raised his gloved index finger.

"Sir," the butler said softly, his voice a silken whisper. "Your tie is crooked."

Rick looked down. His tie was indeed slightly askew. He instinctively reached up to straighten it.

The very instant his tie was perfectly straight, the butler, still smiling, drew his gloved index finger gently, slowly, from his own left temple to his right. He drew an invisible line across his own throat, a slow-motion pantomime of a beheading.

Then, holding the grotesque pose, he looked Rick in the eye and said, "Perfect now. Your coffee will be right up."

With that, he turned with elegant precision and walked away, his steps as measured and exact as a metronome.

Rick stood frozen at the door, the blood in his veins turning to ice. He understood. The butler's gesture was a warning, a crystal-clear, nauseating warning.

The third Forbidden Rule: Do not, in any form, inquire about, ask, or mention the "Rules" themselves.

And the consequence of breaking this rule... the butler had just vividly demonstrated it on his own throat. The welcome party, it seemed, was only just beginning.