Havisham Family

The condescension filled the air between them, drifting languidly around Viktor, clinging like a second skin.

All the while, he maintained his patient silence, refusing to further dignify the treatment with a response.

A masterful facade of a smile, filled with surreptitious signals of subjugated bitterness and resilience, found its place on Viktor's handsome face.

The young man bit down on his lower lip, a scarcely noticeable sign of the psychological battle being waged within him.

He bowed his head so as not to meet the eyes of his tormentors and politely responded,

"Thank you."

After these words escaped his lips, he turned around, shoring up his resolve with each step as he retreated back into the sanctuary of the kitchen to cater to orders of the other customers.

"Isn't this immensely frustrating?" cooed a voice in the back of his mind.

This was the voice of Malphas, an ever-present specter that preyed on Viktor's vulnerabilities.

"Come now, don't ignore me. It's useless, don't you see? You are only torturing yourself by acting like this."

The words held a perverse allure, sneaking into Viktor's mind at the precise moment his heart wavered, unable to resolve the turmoil or make clear decisions.

They were spoken with a manipulative cadence, a rhythm that likened a serpent's tantalizing dance.

They were whispered persistently, each repetition a drop, slowly eroding Viktor's stalwart defenses.

But no matter how intensely the words echoed, no matter how they clawed at his willpower, Viktor continued to shut them out.

***

Thirty days had drifted by like floating petals on a gentle river stream, eventually leading to Jansen's private quarters.

This was not a simple room, but rather a sentinel of affluence or a haven for the elite. It was the most exclusive VIP hospital room, accommodating its patients amidst an air of gravitas.

The solitude that had shrouded Jansen's exalted room was punctuated one day by a visitor who radiated an aura of importance — easily conspicuous amidst common faces.

His attire was a testament to his status; an immaculately tailored suit hugging his form fittingly, a tie lending the final touch of excellence.

The files he clasped in his right hand were more than mere paper and ink, presumably housing documents of the utmost significance.

Jansen, the receiving party of this enigmatic guest, was unmistakably firm in his commands.

"Settle everything with a sweep of cash. Silence the victims, not allowing them a minute more to voice their grievances. My recuperation should remain untainted, unmarred by the discordant melody of their wails and their futile complaints," he ordered, every syllable reverberating with resolution.

The stately gentleman was no stranger to Jansen's family and his peremptory orders. He was a seasoned family attorney, a quiet and assiduous worker bee attending to the legal mazes woven by the Havisham family.

This individual had reserved his energy and resources for years, meticulously handling the complex issues that found their way to him on the turbid trail the Havishams left in their wake.

"Very well. I will expedite the matters as swiftly as possible," the lawyer responded, attempting to veil the undercurrents of stress and tension beneath the surface of his impassive visage.

"Isn't that the least you could do, dolt? After all, you are handsomely compensated for this very purpose," Jansen goaded, his barbed words strewn with an air of nonchalance.

The advocate, stung but refusing to retaliate, earnestly dipped his head, signifying his acute awareness of the familial dynamics at play.

He prepared himself to take leave, uttering, "I seek your permission to retire—" But before he could conclude, Jansen brusquely interrupted him.

Without sparing a single glance at his discomposed lawyer, Jansen dismissively waved his hand, a clear signal urging him to depart without further delay. "Off you go, shoo!"

The lawyer sighed internally, a profound sigh steeped in years of swallowed resentment and suppressed frustration.

His breath hitched as if he was mentally uncoiling the weight of professional restraint he'd been carrying for years.

Rendering his services to the Havisham family, perhaps one of the most ethically mismatched and difficult families he'd known, certainly was no simple feat.

His job demanded an exceptional level of perseverance, a trait that had been stretched thin over time.

As he was about to leave, Jansen shouted at him, "Don't forget to close the door tightly!"

The peaceful moment that Jansen had yearned for vanished in an instant as a woman he knew all too well forced her way into his room.

Even the guards couldn't intervene as the woman threatened to report them to the police for sexual harassment.

Emilia, using a crutch for support, moved closer to Jansen with a determined yet unsteady gait.

Her eyes bore into him, filled with a mixture of anger, frustration, and a hint of sadness.

The guards stationed outside were well aware of Emilia's reputation for causing scenes.

They knew they had to tread carefully in this situation, or it could lead to even more trouble.

So, despite their instincts to intervene, they remained on the periphery, ready to step in if things got out of control.

As Emilia approached, she didn't hold back. She raised her crutch and began striking Jansen's chest with a relentless fury.

Each blow carried the weight of her pent-up emotions, and the sound of the crutch hitting his chest echoed in the small room.

"Jansen! You wretched man! Get over here!"