I wake up without a dream. It's rare. Usually, they cling to me like leeches: screams, flames, eyes lost in eternity… But not this night. Just emptiness. As if someone had erased the film. I don't know whether to be glad or worried.
Light filters through the threadbare curtains of the room I rent. Forty square meters of solitude, dampness, and walls too thin. The kind of place where neighbors don't need to knock to enter your life: they do it through screams, moans, quarrels, and laughter that pierce the walls like blades.
I stretch. My back cracks. I feel like I slept on a pile of rubble. That's probably what my mattress has become, after bearing the weight of a former demon for so long.
I head to the bathroom. The mirror is cracked. I cracked it one day when my reflection dared to look at me with pity. Today, it avoids my gaze. So do I.
I brush my teeth mechanically, staring at the fissure that splits my face in two. It's rather poetic. Symbolic, even. Two faces, two names, two natures. One human, the other… not.
The water is icy cold. The water heater gave out two weeks ago. I shower anyway. It wakes the corpse inside. I put on black pants, a wrinkled shirt, and a jacket that no longer has any identifiable color. I'm ready for a funeral. Maybe mine.
I have a quick breakfast: two toasted slices and a bitter coffee. The smell is familiar, comforting in its own way. It's nothing infernal, and that's already something.
Outside, the air is warm. A mixture of pollution, noise, and life.
Cars honk as if the world would stop if they didn't reach their next red light. Pedestrians move with that strange energy normal people have: a goal, an illusion, something to wait for. Me, I move because I'm still here.
Jamila told me today we're looking for a new job. My instinct tells me to run. But I promised to try. And I rarely know how to say no to her.
I spot her at the end of the street, sitting on a public bench, phone in one hand, the other waving me a little sign. She's wearing a denim jacket over her cream dress, hair tied up hastily. Natural, as always. She stands out in this too-gray world.
I approach her slowly. Each step reminds me that I'm here, on this Earth, condemned to play a role I didn't choose.
"Hi," she says, smiling. "Ready for the job hunt, Natsa?"
I raise an eyebrow.
"Ready to pretend, yes."
She shakes her head, amused, but I guess a little worry in her eyes.
She wants me to get better. She still believes it's possible. It's cute.
I sit next to her.
The world keeps turning.
And I hold on.
The day had unfolded like an endless loop of humiliation.
— "Sorry, we're not looking for profiles like yours."
— "You seem… a bit too intense."
— "Did you just tell our director he looked like an aristocratic lizard?"
— "The sales position requires a bit more… smiling."
— "No, you can't modify the uniform as you please."
— "You scare the customers."
— "No, being punctual doesn't make up for your 'I'm going to destroy this company' look."
Again. And again. And again.
Now, Natsa and Jamila were sitting on a stone bench downtown, surrounded by glass skyscrapers reflecting the sun's glare like modern gods. Luxury cars purred nearby. The world went on without them, opulent, hurried, unreachable.
Jamila crossed her arms, pouting, eyebrows furrowed. She fidgeted, annoyed.
Natsa, meanwhile, lay back on the bench's backrest, head tilted back, eyes fixed on the sky. Clouds drifted slowly, as if participating in a funeral parade in his honor.
Jamila exploded:
— Getting rejected fifteen times in one day isn't normal, Natsa! You could at least try to make a good impression! Why always say what you think? It won't kill you, you know, to pretend!
He sighed deeply, as if even speaking was a concession to society.
— I'm sorry, Jamila… but it's stronger than me. If you want, we can try again… I'll pretend this time.
She turned her head slightly toward him, softening her features. A realization had struck her.
— Oh…
Then she lowered her eyes and whispered:
— Meh… if you don't like pretending… better not to do it. Ideally, you should find a job where you can be perfectly yourself.
He looked at her sideways, then smiled. A rare smile, almost imperceptible, like a wink from one tired soul to another.
But this calm was abruptly interrupted.
— Excuse me!
The voice was lively, almost theatrical. They turned their heads.
A man stood there. Spiky orange hair, stuck under a black hat with a scarlet ribbon. Elegant red jacket, like from an old cabaret. A cane in hand, which he twirled nonchalantly.
— I'm sorry, I was passing behind you and… I couldn't help overhearing. I understand this boy here is looking for a job? Getting rejected fifteen times in one day isn't something you hear every day, haha…
Jamila blushed, visibly shocked:
— No, but… it's rude to listen to people's conversations like that!
The man chuckled, revealing teeth too white to be honest.
— I'm really sorry. But you almost forced me to do it. And besides… I'm quite interested in hiring this boy as a young bodyguard. But I'd like to know if he can handle it. He said he was looking for a job where he can honestly be who he is, right?
Jamila frowned.
— A bodyguard?
— I'm in, Natsa replied simply.
Jamila turned to him, bewildered.
— What? Are you serious? That can be a dangerous job!
Natsa put a hand on her shoulder. She felt the reassuring warmth despite his cold fingers.
— Don't worry about that.
Then he looked at the man:
— How much does it pay?
The man gave a sly smile.
— Oh, you know… To start, you'll get about $10,000. But if you're really good, we can consider doubling that.
Jamila's eyes widened:
— $10,000? That's the normal salary for a bodyguard?
The man shrugged with a wink:
— Normal? That's a word that doesn't suit me, miss.
He pulled a card from his inner pocket and handed it to Natsa. Quality paper, golden letters.
— My name is Claremont. They also call me "the wandering gentleman." If you're still interested, meet me tomorrow morning at the address on the back. I'd like to see what you're capable of.
He gave an elegant cane salute, like a magician finishing a trick, then walked away into the crowd.
Jamila watched him, mouth open.
Natsa, meanwhile, stared at the card. The smirk hadn't left his face.
— A wandering gentleman… huh?
Sunlight filtered through the shabby curtains of the apartment. Natsa opened one eye. Then the other. He lay there a moment, his mind still stuck in yesterday's clouds.
— Bodyguard, huh… he murmured, staring at the ceiling as if he could read the future there.
Jamila was already knocking on the bathroom door.
— Are you ready? We're going to be late for your "wandering gentleman"!
A few minutes later, Natsa came out, washed, clean-shaven, dressed in… his usual black sweater and too-long pants that trailed a bit on the sidewalks.
— Don't you want to at least put on a shirt? Jamila said, exasperated.
— That would be lying, he replied, putting on deodorant without much conviction.
They took the bus to the upscale Marlha district. The contrast was immediate: marble sidewalks, automatic fountains, windows with glossy reflections, and people in suits who seemed never to sweat.
At the end of an alley lined with meticulously trimmed hedges, they found the private estate: a huge wrought-iron gate with stylized dragon motifs. A butler greeted them.
— Mr. Claremont is expecting you. Please follow me.
The garden was almost unreal. Ivory statues, trees trimmed like origami, and even a small artificial lake with fish that seemed to wear makeup.
They were led to a paved courtyard where several men and women had already gathered.
All were tall, well-built, silent. Fitted outfits, black glasses, discreet earpieces. Professional bodyguards. Some trained in hand-to-hand combat. Others tested their reflexes by dodging rubber bullets fired by automatons.
Natsa observed everything without apparent emotion. Jamila shrank behind him.
— Uh… Are you sure about this?
— No.
— Then why are you staying?
— Because I don't want to run.
Before she could reply, a door opened.
Claremont Rüzgar appeared, impeccable in a white pinstripe suit. He still held his cane, this time adorned with a red ruby pommel.
— Ah, there you are! he exclaimed, advancing with flair. Welcome to my humble estate. These people are my candidates for the personal bodyguard position. And you, sir… Natsa, is that right? You will be tested alongside them.
Jamila wanted to protest, but Natsa raised a hand:
— Very well.
—I like your calm. It's an underrated quality in this job. However… Claremont leaned toward him. Are you really planning to face these people in that black sweater and those beat-up sneakers?
— They just have to be careful not to ruin my style.
A quiet chuckle ran through the ranks of the other guards. Claremont burst out laughing, then straightened up:
— Excellent! Ladies and gentlemen, the test begins in 30 minutes. You will escort a "client" through an obstacle course. Simulated assaults, street negotiations, stress management. Everything a worthy bodyguard must know. Prepare yourselves.
He nodded at Natsa.
— Good luck, sir. I'm curious to see if you're an actor… or an anomaly.
Then he left, escorted by two silent shadows.
Jamila tugged Natsa's sleeve.
— This is crazy. It's like an elite casting… and you show up with your "I didn't sleep but I have nothing to prove" face.
— Because I didn't sleep and I have nothing to prove.
— You're going to die.
— Maybe. But stylish.
They stayed there, silent, while the other candidates warmed up quietly. Tension hung in the air.
Natsa, meanwhile, looked at the clouds once again. As if it was them, deep down, he would have to cross.