EPILOGUE OF THE SAMPO INTERLUDE: WARDROBE CHANGE
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Location: Imatra Castle. Royal box (former control room).
Time: December 25. 01X.
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The creature that called itself Monsieur Blanc stood in the middle of the pulsating hall.
The walls around him breathed heavily. The floor beneath his feet shuddered, pumping the thick, hot energy of guilt.
Task accomplished. Protocol SAMPO activated. Region cleared. The Hierarchy received its Angonium.
Blanc raised his hand to his face.
He ran a finger along his cheek — that same smooth, gray, boring skin of a Euro-bureaucrat.
— «Boredom,» — he pronounced.
His voice changed. The grinding and cold vanished from it. Velvet, deep notes appeared in it.
— «What unbearable boredom it is — to be a function.»
He jerked his arm sharply, as if tearing away a spiderweb.
The gray jacket, tie, white shirt — all of it flowed, changing structure.
The matter darkened. It became black, like a starless night, and dense, like obsidian.
The boring cut of a business suit turned into a flawless, aristocratic tuxedo with long tails.
The white shirt became dazzling, with a high stand-up collar.
Cufflinks flashed with gold.
The creature straightened up. It became taller.
«Blanc’s» face melted away, giving way to another visage — pale, refined, bearing the stamp of an eternal, jaded irony.
He adjusted his cuffs with his long, musical pianist’s fingers.
He listened closely.
Outside, the wind howled. In the pipes of the Castle, Elias moaned. In the Fog, thousands of voices rustled.
— «Do you hear?» — he asked the walls. — «The acoustics here are… divine. And your moan is… musical…»
He paced across the hall, his patent leather shoes clicking.
— «My brothers are butchers. They love efficiency. They build Hives. Factories. Slaughterhouses. Farms.»
He winced, as if from a bad smell.
— «Fie. How vulgar. Where is the drama? Where is the tragedy? Where is the beauty of decay?»
He walked over to the place where there used to be a window, and now — a huge stained-glass window looking into the eternal darkness.
His new face reflected in the glass.
— «I am tired of being an Ambassador,» — he said to his reflection. — «I want to be… a Director.»
He raised his hand.
In the air, from a clot of darkness, a thin, elegant conductor’s baton wove itself together.
He waved it.
The Castle responded. The walls creaked in unison. The pipes emitted a low, organ-like sound.
— «Yes,» — He smiled. — «This Instrument is tuned perfectly.»
He turned to the empty hall.
— «Elias!» — he shouted, and the echo carried across all floors. — «Do not sleep! We are just beginning. The first act is over, but the play… the play will be eternal.»
He bowed theatrically to an invisible audience.
— «Welcome to my Theater of Shadows. I hope you appreciate the repertoire.»
He snapped his long fingers.
And in the empty buttonhole of his tuxedo, out of nowhere, appeared the bud of a beautiful black rose.
The first living flower in this dead world.
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(SYSTEM MESSAGE: OBJECT STATUS UPDATE)
OBJECT: HOTEL «IMATRA». CLASS: LUXURY PSYCHO-TRAP. MANAGER: SENTINEL (EX-ELIAS). OWNER: DIRECTOR (EX-BLANC).
HOUSE RULES:
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Entry is free. Exit — the cost of a soul at the current exchange rate.
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Room service works eternally.
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If you hear crying in the pipes — pay no attention. That is the heating system operating.
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The fog around the hotel is not weather. Do not be frightened. That is the staff.
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WELCOME. WE ARE OPEN.
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END OF SAMPO INTERLUDE
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(SYSTEM MESSAGE:
BOOK ONE STATUS UPDATE.
COMPLETED. 99.9% …
DRAFT (AUDIO FORMAT) 99.9% COMPLETED)
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(SYSTEM MESSAGE: TO BE CONTINUED. THE BOOK IS NOT FINISHED… LOADING LANA INTERLUDE)
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> ⚠️ ENTITY STATUS: HOTEL «IMATRA» IS OPEN. THE DIRECTOR IS ON STAGE.
>
> 🎭 Applause in the studio, protein-based readers! Book One closes not with a bang, but with the elegant wave of a conductor’s baton. It turns out that among the Higher Logic of the +Angi, there are aesthetes. Monsieur Blanc got bored of simply being a function in a gray jacket. Why manage a banal pain-harvesting farm when you can become a Director in your own Theater of Shadows?
>
> 🛎️ Hotel «Imatra» is ready to receive guests. Elias’s pipe-veins are tuned like a perfect organ, and the Fog outside the window performs the choir part. Forget about a boring end of the world. An endless, exquisite play of matter decay awaits you. Read the house rules carefully: room service is eternal, and you will have to pay with your soul.
>
> 💀 Book your rooms while the Smartass Jerk (with the Architect in his head) marches toward these very doors. The intermission is over.
