(Twenty Minutes Later)
The scent of the meal drifted through the air, subtle yet intoxicating, weaving its way through the room like an unspoken invitation to indulge.
"Good heavens, that smells absolutely divine..." Faizal murmured, lifting his nose slightly, eyes narrowing as he followed the delicate trail of the fragrance.
"Indeed, it’s almost unbearable... Come on, let’s see what’s on offer. I don’t know why, but suddenly I’m starving," Santo replied, his voice brimming with anticipation as he made his way swiftly towards the kitchen, his appetite evident in every step.
As they stepped through the threshold, both men came to an abrupt halt, struck dumb by the sight that awaited them.
Before them, the dining table was a veritable feast, laden with an abundance of dishes, each more tempting than the last.
Steam rose lazily from the bowls and plates, still warm, their contents fragrantly inviting.
The rich aroma of spices and the seductive scent of melting butter seemed to swirl in the air, luring their empty stomachs with promises of indulgence.
A drop of saliva escaped, betraying their hunger.
GULP!
"Oh, it seems you’ve all arrived," Sergej remarked with an easy smile, his hands deftly drying the last drops of water from his fingers with a towel. "I was just about to summon you."
Santo stood there, wide-eyed in astonishment, "I had no idea you were so gifted in the kitchen, Robert. This is truly remarkable!"
"You're flattering me," Sergej responded with a lighthearted chuckle, offering a subtle wink. "But when it comes to food... I do take it quite seriously."
"To be honest... I once worked as the head chef at a prestigious restaurant in England," Robert, though his true name was Sergej, remarked casually, placing the final spoon neatly beside the plate.
"Come now, bring the other three over," he said, his gaze flicking towards Faizal and Santo.
Without a moment's hesitation, Faizal swiftly beckoned the others to join them.
"Oh, and just one more thing," Sergej added, his smile widening once more, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes. "I would also like to ask for your permission... to feed the captive. Would that be alright?"
"Of course, go ahead! You can feed her yourself!" Santo replied, his words tumbling out without a thought, as his attention was already fully consumed by the array of dishes on the table, his taste buds eager to explore each one.
"Very well... help yourselves to your heart's content," Sergej said calmly, his voice steady as his eyes flicked over each of them in turn, his expression unruffled.
"Take it easy, Robert. I think you're underestimating the size of my appetite. Ha... ha... ha!" Santo chuckled, then, without a moment's pause, scooped a generous spoonful of rice into his mouth.
The moment the rice hit his tongue, Santo’s eyes snapped wide open, his expression one of utter disbelief.
“Bloody hell! This is divine! Damn it! Even my wife could never cook anything this good!”
Faizal, his face glowing with a genuine smile, nodded vigorously, “You’re spot on! My wife, too. This is absolutely extraordinary…”
“Right, then! Let’s not waste any more time. Let’s eat!” Santo urged, his voice thick with anticipation.
No further invitation was needed. The five men, driven by hunger and delight, fell upon the food with gusto.
The rhythmic clash of spoons and forks against plates, the occasional bursts of laughter that rang through the room, seemed to drown out all the shadows of their earlier intentions, as if the very act of eating had cast away their darker thoughts.
Robert Schoff, or more fittingly Sergej Bojan, entered the dimly lit room where Melati lay confined.
In his hand, he carried a plate of food, its rich aroma filling the air, swirling gently in the quiet space.
A smile, calm and unhurried, lingered on his lips, as though the contents of the plate were not a symbol of power or control, but of a kind, albeit unsettling, generosity.
"Good afternoon, Miss," he said softly, his tone light and almost cordial, as if he were welcoming a guest, not addressing a prisoner.
Melati flinched, her body tensing as though a bolt of electricity had shot through her, "W-What... do you want from me?!" Her voice trembled, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief, fixed on him as though he might pounce at any moment.
Sergej's smile remained, soft and unhurried. He lowered himself to the edge of the bed, his movements deliberate but not threatening.
"Just relax..." he said, his voice low and soothing, a stark contrast to the tension in the room. "I’ve brought you something to eat. You must be hungry, haven’t had a proper meal in days, have you?"
His grin widened, but there was an oddness to it, a certain chill behind the warmth that his expression betrayed.
It was as if the smile was only skin deep, veiling something far more complex beneath.
Melati was, in truth, famished. Her limbs had grown feeble, her belly twisted and hollow with the cruel ache of hunger.
Two, perhaps three days confined in this room without a morsel of food or a single drop of water had left her in a state of quiet desperation.
As Sergej stepped forward, offering a plate of steaming fare, the aroma drifted temptingly through the stale air.
Her instincts stirred, her mouth parted slightly, almost of its own accord, but then, just as quickly, she recoiled, her will hardening against the urge.
Her eyes narrowed, now sharp with wariness, suspicion coiled tightly within her chest.
"Enough, sir," she murmured, her voice low, frayed by exhaustion yet laced with quiet defiance. "You're one of them, aren't you? No use pretending kindness to me. I daresay… I shan’t be long for this world anyway.”
The words hung in the air, brittle and bare. And then the tears came.
Silent at first, then trembling through her, until her shoulders shook beneath the weight of fear and grief, her sobs muffled by the heavy stillness of the room.
Sergej drew in a long, measured breath, the glint of jest vanishing from his eyes as gravity took its place.
“My lady… I shall not allow death to claim you. On that, you have my solemn vow. Should I fail in this task, it will be my own life forfeit by the hand of none other than My Boss, Filzev himself.”
Melati recoiled, her breath catching mid-gasp, eyes wide with disbelief, “What did you say? Your boss? Filzev? You mean… Doctor Zein Al-Ghifari?!”
In an instant, Sergej leaned closer, a finger raised swiftly to his lips in caution.
“Shh… I beg you, keep your voice low,” he whispered.
“You are Melati, are you not? Yes… I thought so. I was sent under strict instruction by him to see you safe.” His tone was low, urgent, laced with an earnestness that cut through the dim room. “I ask only for your trust, my lady. Work with me… and we may yet find your freedom.”
“Doctor Zein… so you truly cared…” Melati murmured, her voice little more than a breath, broken by soft sobs.
Tears traced silent paths down her cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable, as though her heart had suddenly remembered how to feel.
“Don’t cry, my lady,” Sergej said gently, his tone far removed from the sly banter he’d worn like a mask.
“Here… try to eat something, will you?” With measured calm, he raised a spoonful of food to her lips, his hand steady.
She accepted it with hesitation, then chewed slowly. Warmth spread through her belly, mingled with a fragile flicker of trust.
“It’s… lovely,” she whispered, a faint, wistful smile finding its way to her trembling lips. “Thank you.”
Sergej inclined his head, solemn now, “Miss Melati, I’m going to release your bindings. But once I do, I must ask that you remain exactly as you were. You must appear tied, helpless. Can you do that?”
She nodded faintly, uncertain.
His voice dropped lower, carrying a quiet urgency, “Those men… I’ll take care of them. But you must stay here. Don’t move. And above all. Don’t watch!! Whatever you might hear, whatever you might imagine… look away. I’m about to play a trick on them. One final act, before the curtain falls.”