C4: Decode

From the hallway, furrows of concern creased Diaz's brow as his gaze fell upon the still form of his student Alessio, lying motionless in the private room where the only view was through a tiny crack in the door. 

"Will Alessio be alright?" he asked worriedly, his gaze still fixed on the unmoving student. Trying to assuage Diaz's concerns, Alessio's assistant spoke in a comforting tone from the hallway. 

"Yes, the doctors said he'd recover soon."

"The principal has really had it in for your master lately, eager to get him for this contest." 

"It's alright, he'll be waking up soon. I'm sure he'll be excited." Diaz reached to him to give the baskets to him, saying, "These are from his classmates, and some of them are from the school club he's in. Nothing is from the faculty or from the school." People aren't allowed to accept any form of gift from the teacher or vice versa. It's the code they must never break. 

"Thank you." He accepted the baskets with courtesy, hesitating for a moment as curiosity and gratitude warred within him over the gift that was not his. Though every instinct told him to abandon the basket and flee from the worms, he found himself transfixed, staring at the squirming pink and gray mound inside the wriggling worms like a rat king scenario. Suddenly, a cry of revulsion escaped him, and he dropped the basket to the ground. The worms spilled out, swarming over his shoes and crawling up his trouser legs. He then noticed the jelly-fruit-shaped container he had brought was also filled with worms, causing him to panic at the realization that worms were now covering his feet and legs. He drops the basket and gets as far away from those worms as possible, as the worms spill out to swarm over his shoes and up his trousers legs as they begin to swiftly crawl to him. "Ah! Mister Claude!" Diaz immediately bent down and picked him up.

"Don't pick those up!" Claude ordered in an anxious tone. He approached Diaz to help remove the worms from his foot. 

"What?" Diaz's eyes blinked in confusion. He stared blankly at Claude for a few seconds before speaking in his usual, lighthearted tone. "Sorry, what did you just say?" he questioned. This... start. Why does it look like... No, it's not.

"There are worms."

"Wait, here?" 

"Sorry about that, I'll just buy new ones." Diaz smiled as he picked up the fruit but withtthe moment he touch it returned to being some fruit. Claude scrunched his eyes trying to see it once more. "Why? Did you see something else, Mr. Claude?" He stared back at him intently as if they were the only ones in the hallway. "Where are they?" he didn't flinch an inch. 

"Should I be staring at something else?" Diaz's smile faded as he stared intently at Claude, a cold, calculating look in his eyes. The air suddenly felt heavier and charged with menace. Claude met Diaz's stare unflinchingly, his expression stoic. After a tense moment that stretched on, Claude finally replied in an equally deep voice. "Nothing, sir. I'll just pick it up for you. You don't have to…" Diaz's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered Claude for a long moment. 

"Okay then." Claude grasps it and felt it for a moment. The fruits was clean and dry, and there was this abscense of movement that his skin expects. I must be hallucinating… or must be jet lag. He shook it off. 

"Bye then." As Diaz bade farewell, Claude reflected on his master's missing hand—the reason for his hospitalization. Right now, his master's hand is already cut off. That's why he's here, plus the old man asked him to be here. 

Drifted in and out of consciousness, Alessio's head was in a haze, trying to come to terms with the events that had recently occurred. Trying to connect things piece by pieces with little evidence around in a hospital room that was sterile and devoid of any warmth or personality. 

The only source of light was the sunlight that filtered through the blinds, casting a soft glow on his battered body that heated his cold skin. His memory was shrouded in a haze of confusion and disorientation, the events of the past seeming distant and surreal, yet the first thing he thought of was, "Did my sister really help me get out? Or was it just the police?" As he traced all his memories back to what happened, he was bewildered at the sense of mystery and emptiness wrapping around his head. 

There were so many questions in his mind. Anyone would be frustrated in such an annoying situation, especially since he had lost a part of himself. He recalled that he was escaping from a killer after his only friend, his aunt. The memory was entirely uncomfortable to remember, but he needed to recall the details. Just like the television who occasionally loses its cignal. 

The door opened, and a young man in his 20s with a French crop haircut, a white long-sleeved shirt, and a black tie entered the room carrying a lunch bag in his hand. "Ah, it seems you have finally awakened, Sir."

"Isn't it obvious?" 

Benedict noted the familiar face before him, feeling annoyance mingle with his otherwise calm demeanor. "What an ugly ass haircut," he thought to himself. The man was Claude Guetta, who for years had served as assistant to Benedict's grandfather SP in his business on the continent. Now Claude held the same role in assisting Benedict, though they knew each other from his constant presence at his grandfather's side. It came as no surprise then that Benedict recognized Claude, knowing him only as the aide to his family patriarch. Still, their history did not stop Benedict from speaking his mind internally, even about one as influential as Claude.

"Gah. That serves you right, sir." Claude replied, annoyance creeping into the honorific. 'Sir' is a nice way to address someone who is above you to show respect even if you're annoyed. He knew it in the back of his head. Their relationship as the employer and employee isn't there but the tension of transitioning to employers is. Preposterous. He should be accepting that now. Their dynamic had shifted from its former employer-employee roots, a transition neither found easy. In his mind, Benedict demanding acceptance was premature - they both required time to adjust to this new power balance. But voicing such thoughts would only further inflame, so Alessio held his tongue and bided his time. "You simply cannot help but to show it off, can you? Taking great pride in your every action without hesitation! Quite admirable."

"Then who will be proud of me, Claude?"

"I will," Claude said sincerely. He confessed that he has developed a certain admiration for Benedict ever since his encounter at the horse stables in America, where he diligently tended to the horses for a considerable period of time. It's hilarious but it's true.

"I might consider acknowledging your achievements provided that you'll refrain from displaying an inflated ego and stuck-up pride unlike your sister, sir." Benedict waved away Claude's criticism dismissively. 

"Oh, shut up. I know that you are always proud of me. I suppose we've both had our share of trials with my sister. But let us speak no more of past grievances." Benedict smirked a little knowing that Claude already took a liking to him yet he slightly tasted bitter when his sister was mentioned. It doesn't bother him that much that half of Claude's loyalty isn't there but any mention of his sister annoys him. 

"How's my artwork?" Alessio shook off the thought.

"Still fine." 

"What do you mean it's 'still fine'?"

"Just the usual people looking over at it." 

"That's not how-" Alessio groaned in annoyance. "Just… tell me if 

 "The prosthetic hands?" He knows Claude is already prepared for it; he knows him so well. 

"It's about to arrive soon. I was about to tell them not to do it because you're an idiot for going inside to save your relative's butt, sir." The moment Claude was informed about the incident, he already had prepared the moment he was informed by the hospital. He was the only one in his contacts after all. "You're not thinking. You could have just called me. Sir Dumbass." Claude snarled.

He put down the lunch bag on the side table and removed the container inside. He removed the spoon and fork from the case and opened the box. It was chicken cooked in vinegar and soy sauce, with some pepper and spices included. It's a simple dish, and even foreigners like Claude would know it easily. 

"Your name Benedict suits you Sir Alessio; you're being rude [being a d-ck] to yourself with your 'pride.' Always saying I can do some shit. Of course, I know you can do something, but at that point, you gotta call someone who knows what to do in that situation."

"Oh yeah, you're that person who knows what to do at that time. You've experienced that already, huh?"

"I'm not bragging, sir." Claude filled the spoon as he put it near Benedict's lips. "Open your mouth. You need to eat to gain back your strength." He opened his mouth, and Claude fed him.

"Good thing you're at least listening to me and don't want to argue." As Benedict swallowed the food, the pain subsided from the inside of his skull, though he still felt tired.

"Not that I have a choice. I practically have one hand now," he mumbled under his breath as he chewed the food and slowly swallowed it.

"It's not like you can't use the other one, Sir."

 "I guess you'll have to be my hand now, Claude? And do whatever I need." Benedict grinned evilly implying some thoughts Claude doesn't even want to think about.

"Open your mouth and eat, or else I won't give you anything," he said, shoving another spoonful of food into Benedict's mouth. "I can pay someone to do that for you. After all, I'm not bound by the 'service' I give to Mr. SP. I'm only here because SP told me, my dear sir. Don't get cocky, sir."

"Aid me, I need to recover mentally as fast as I can." I couldn't let my dad or my sister get ahead of me because of SP's wealth.

"Claude, do you still have my hand?"

"What?"

"My hand. My severed hand."

"Your hand was nowhere to be found at the scene, that's why they chose to do that to you." If I'm correct, I pulled something from a killer. It's a piece of their clothing, or, if I'm not wrong, I think I touched a liquid with it. As my eyes were being slashed at that time, I smelled blood on her pants. I fought back in an instant. The smell of the blood was still present, although I'm not sure if it was the liquid that I touched on his pants, but I am sure it was. If I'm wrong, at least I know it can help, as I can remember at least pulling a piece of cloth from his pants. I am also surprised by how weak the cloth is. It's tear-able as if it were an old rug. You can tear it into pieces in minutes. 

"Are you sure my hands aren't actually there?" Claude nods.

"Benedict, we found you in a river. Your hand was already severed, and your hand isn't there with you." 

"Do you guys check the houses near the river? You know, if I were still alive even after that, I'd like you to consider it, not a miracle but check the houses near it. You know what I meant, Claude."

"How about the rubies and vines?" 

"Rubies? Vines?"

"There were a lot of rubies. They were everywhere, and it seemed like it was dripping down," he said with frustration as he tried to think back. "And the heat of the room feels like an oven." An oven, Claude mentally noted.

"There are things that the police can look at for evidence, sir: the floors, the doors, and the outside of the crime scene. I'm sure the police won't hesitate to get every inch of the house to find details of the crime." 

"I believe, Benedict, you are having hallucinations at that time. Are you sure about what you're saying Sir?" 

"Yes. Wait, my aunt?"

"Miss Jackson's body isn't there. Her body is still missing." Claude fished his phone from his pocket and looked at his messages. "How can you be sure? Those people haven't seen this kind of case! Plus, we don't know if some of them are lackeys of a powerful being." 

"Benedict Alessio, there are other things SP wants you to focus on." Alessio stopped as he was startled after hearing SP wanted something from him. The old man wanted something for him to do again. He'd do anything to make that old man happy honestly but at this time where he's still trying to investigate and recover from the crime that he was involved in?

"SP wanted you to join the art competition."

"Then he agrees to investigate this thing for me right?"

"I shall inform the Master SP of your intentions, though what he decides is truly none of my concern. But I know he still holds your request despite how you are the only one who can inherit it after all your aunt could be dead." Greed. That's what SP told me about Alessio. 

Alessio sat up straight after hearing this. For him, it was preposterous; he did what SP said, right? Did the old man really think so badly of him? He thought that SP had left everything behind for him to consume. Alessio started asking questions to Claude as if expecting him to answer his questions. "That silly little contest that doesn't even have a name…" 

"There is, and there's a press conference about it. I suggest you prepare yourself and adjust immediately in using your mechanical hand. The road you'll take is a roundabout; prove your worth, SP says." 

"That damn old man." the youth withdrew the tube penetrating his veins letting the fluids spill. Despite his wavering limbs he walks like a crab away from his bed and leaves the room. 

"SP. I'm afraid your grandson is terrible at following your instructions. You heard that right, SP?" he pulled off his earpiece, and he pressed on it to disconnect his phone as he got his phone from his other hand. 

"Let him be. I'll take care of his aunt."

"Your grandson sucks."

"Claude." He then looks over the flowers that he saw earlier. Tiny jute flowers no bigger than his thumbnail dotted among the yellow and red lantana blooms, their delicate petals curling at the edges. Lilies and poppies added bursts of white and crimson to the arrangement and the single carnation on it. And it was the tall, graceful leaves that truly made the bouquet shine in an arrangement in a manner that complements it with the tall leaves that decorate it.

"Sorry, Sir SP. I'll assist him now."