Chapter 30: The Price of Trust

“The truth is rarely pure and never simple.”

— Oscar Wilde

Anatig yanked open the door, still groggy, and ready to curse whoever dared disturb her at this ungodly Sunday morning hour. Upon opening the door, the words died in her throat. Alex was sitting on his knees before her, but not the Alex she knew. It was a stranger staring with empty eyes, wearing Alex’s face like a stolen identity. His clothes hung on his body like loose shackles belonging to someone else. The fabric writhed against his skin like a rebellious snake, pushing him into convulsions and contortions, as if trying to escape his own body. The porch corner shadowed across his face, highlighting the chemical sheen of sweat on his forehead and highlighted the unnatural dilation of his pupils that had nearly swallowed his eye’s iris. His hands trembled, raw and bloodied at the knuckles. The air around him seemed to vibrate with a desperate, frenetic energy. 

"Jesus Christ!” she blurted, recognition and horror both mixing in her gut. This was what someone looked like after they tried to kill themselves… she didn’t know that. He again failed; and after he was spit back out by whatever void he’d tried to disappear into.  Behind her, Vilhelm emerged from the shadows of their home, a silent witness to this unraveling. 

“Dad, what happened to you?” Vilhelm shouted aghast.  

“Come inside or the neighbors will see you like this,” Anatig said with tone of anger and urgency.

The contrast between their ordered world—the coffee table with a vase of fresh flowers next to Vilhelm's framed photo, the neat row of shoes by the door, and the familiar scent of their shared life—and Alex's chaos had never been more vivid.  He tried to speak, but his words were not coming out or were coming out wrong, like his jaw and tongue had forgotten how to form language. Anatig watched him struggle shaking her head in angry disbelief and clinical detachment, conflicted by the muscle memory of compassion.

Eighty-four missed calls on her phone in desperate attempt to reach her and thirty-five missed calls on Vilhelm's phone—all ignored while they were sleeping, and now here he was—

confused and lost the ghost they'd tried to exorcise, landing on their doorstep at dawn. 

The morning birds had begun their chorus. Each chirp made Alex twitch, not just from the sound but from the disillusionment of his own narrative—how the world had wronged him, how everyone had abandoned him, the same story he'd been telling himself since childhood. It was easier to believe that than to admit he had paved this self-destructive path himself, brick by brick—unable to break free from the chains of fear, to forgive his deepest abusers, and to let go of the ghosts of the past he couldn’t control. Reality seemed to bend around him, warped by whatever chemical mix still coursed through his system. In that moment, Anatig saw with perfect clarity what she'd been running from—every promise broken,  chance wasted and trust shattered. She no longer saw the man she had once been attached to; she could hardly grasp what he had become. So she wrapped herself tighter in her robe and sat beside Alex on the sofa, instinctively erecting a barrier between her carefully guarded world and the chaos he had brought. The sun was rising, painting the scene in the living room with unforgiving morning light, revealing every detail she didn't want to see.  With each bitter sip of coffee, Alex watched years of shared history dissolve; reality started solidifying, and in Anatig's eyes, he saw not just anger—something worse: certainty that his self-imposed victimhood had transformed him into nothing more than a cautionary tale in her life's story. It was like pain spilling out in an instant, as they both realized this was the end of everything—arriving like a merciless axe, severing the final threads of hope.

That fateful night of the overdose became Alex's unexpected accelerator for transformation. Amid that chaos, he let a few emotions unravel, just enough to step tentatively forward, though the influence of others lingered, still demanding his attention. During the two-week recovery period, his brain chemistry began rebalancing, bringing unprecedented clarity that medical research shows often follows such near-death experiences.

As the fog lifted, Alex felt an unfamiliar lightness and strength, his mind sharpening with each passing day. This wasn't just psychological—his entire being seemed to vibrate with newfound purpose and determination to build a life away from his past destructive patterns.

The transformation manifested visibly—friends, colleagues, and family noticed his renewed vitality, the confident resonance in his voice, and a purposeful gleam in his eyes. Free from both chemical dependency and a relationship that had devolved into mere security-seeking, Alex channeled his recovering brain's neuroplasticity toward positive change by adapting routines that gave him more strength and peace. Absolutely no drugs or intoxication of any kind. Cold-as-ice showers, Wim Hof breathing practices, Zazen serenity meditations, and evening sessions at the Cardiff Toastmasters club shifted his focus toward building stability—marking a decisive break from the past that had nearly consumed him, free from any fear of consequences.

The confident tone in Alex’s voice did not go unnoticed—especially when he told his friend Ray, who was deeply involved in gang activity, that he planned to leave the House of Shadows and walk away from the gang.

In pursuit of independence, Alex backed by a new investor rented an old house in Caerphilly, a historic Welsh town cloaked in the shadows of the Middle Ages, famed for its 13th-century castle surrounded by a 30-acre water defense system still standing like an eternal sentinel. The house was just a mile from Welsh ICE, the business incubator that had once been the heart of his culinary startup and the fortress of his dreams. Every time he walked past that building, he felt a bittersweet sting in his chest—a reminder of lost aspirations, like the ruins of a castle flooded with unfulfilled ambition.

Alex sensed, though couldn’t fully grasp, that this move beyond gang territory his rational escape toward a new beginning was quietly courting danger, like a siege gathering at the castle walls, even as he focused on building a life between two homes. The only thing he couldn’t yet know was how that danger would materialize and that the shadows were already gathering, plotting to strike.

The gang, seeing his move toward independence as a potential threat, began weaving a complex web of manipulation—such subtle traps that even Alex, despite his newly found clarity, couldn’t see it forming around him. His physical and emotional distance from their territory had unintentionally triggered a dangerous game of psychological warfare—one that would test his resolve in ways no overdose ever could. A cunningly orchestrated scheme of intrigue was set in motion, ready to challenge the fragile stability he had just begun to build. The pieces were already moving; orders had been issued from a Lithuanian prison—designed to completely break Alex’s newfound determination while simultaneously trapping him in lifelong financial debt.

It was a call from Ray that introduced an unexpected variable—a tall, slender girl with a freckled face, disheveled blonde hair, and innocent-looking brown eyes that concealed the darkness of untold stories. Nova, barely eighteen, stood before them like a carefully placed chess piece in a game Alex didn’t realize he was playing. The timing was suspiciously perfect, just as Alex was struggling to manage two properties, planning to leave as soon as the harvest was done and he could take his share. His rekindled passion for writing competed with the practical demands of maintaining both homes and volunteering at the association for the blind. The solution to his time-management dilemma appeared like a gift wrapped in vulnerability—a homeless girl, allegedly fleeing a dark forced prostitution gang in Birmingham. Ray's introduction of Nova was a masterclass in manipulation. Every word was carefully chosen, every gesture calculated.

“A good harvest requires attention,” Ray mentioned as a reminder, his voice precisely calibrated with just the right amount of concern. “And we can’t leave the house unattended—someone always has to be here,” he added, expertly weaving the narrative.

Alex knew full well that the house needed protection, and the girl needed shelter—a perfect solution to his struggle with managing time.

Red flags screamed like sirens, but Alex, adrift in his own desperate hope, suspected nothing. Ray, usually a fortress of insane paranoia when it came to security, bizarrely championed this enigmatic woman's entry into their world. And the way his eyes darted evasively whenever her murky background surfaced? That alone should have set off alarms. Yet Alex's freshly "restored mind"—raw from its rebirth in clarity and compassion—blinded him to every glaring sign.

What he couldn't foresee was how this fleeting mercy would snowball into supposed $70,000 debt to his incarcerated boss and the ruthless gang pulling the strings. In mere weeks, Nova would evaporate as cryptically as she'd materialized, spinning a tangle of fallout that jeopardized both his properties. His generous soul nearly cost him everything.

He'd agreed to offer her refuge in the Cardiff Cecil Street house, on one modest stipulation: tend to the plants, and she could crash on the infamous black sofa. He supplied meals, cash, and a sympathetic ear for her harrowing accounts of rape, even yielding his humble folding couch for her rest—a piece of furniture that had once cradled his own embryonic dreams within those very walls. The bitter irony? In safeguarding one home, he'd unwittingly laid both bare to peril. His sole redemption: that gut impulse to bar Nova from his second property, a choice that would soon reveal its lifesaving wisdom.

Several weeks flew by in an instant, and everything seemed to be unfolding smoothly—only ten days remained until the harvest at the old house. And then came that fateful evening: the Cardiff Toastmasters meeting was meant to be Alex's pinnacle of triumph, when he would step before the gathered audience for the first time and speak publicly, letting his words soar like free birds. But the furious vibrations of his phone foretold the collapse of his meticulously crafted world. A message from Ray struck like lightning: "The old house has been robbed, the girl beaten and raped!" The words flickered in his eyes like a malfunctioning tube TV. Inexplicable emotions flooded Alex's being, fueling growing suspicions with every syllable.

Alex had to abruptly excuse himself from the Toastmasters evening; racing to the house, where he found a staged chaos. Every detail seemed wrong—the surgical precision of the damage in the greenhouse on the second floor, right before the harvest, and the clearly untouched first floor, except for one open window. Ray's arrival brought an aura of calculated concern that made Alex's instincts howl. Started asking about the girl and her company, mentioning some bullshit friends, that was the moment Alex knew very vell. At that very moment, Morpheus and Tadas materialized; after inspecting the damage in the house, they descended downstairs to Alex with demands for more than £50,000 and accusations blaming him for the entire misfortune—the puzzle pieces began connecting with nauseating clarity. "There's no honor among thieves." The old proverb echoed in Alex's head, but he stood firm, his voice ringing with steely resolve. "You won't pin this on me! Go fuck your self’s, go to hell with your money and your traps!" After this outburst, Alex was surprised he was still alive. Neither did Morpheus knock him down, nor did Tadas dare to object, while Ray just silently watched what would happen next. Alex's secret cards—the new house they didn't know about, since Ray was slipperier than the slipperiest slug in this house. Alex realized that the nonexistent girl gave him the courage to stand tall. After all, they supposedly didn't know that the girl lived here, just as they didn't know that Alex no longer needed drugs; he'd been clean for several months. He hadn't once been tempted to sleep with the eighteen-year-old, no matter how she tried to seduce him. And suddenly they're all here? His mind was solid, clean, and clear as crystal. They weren’t ready for it—but he stood his ground and walked out, only then realizing the path had been so carefully greased, for him to fall.

Trapped in the cruel irony of his own compassion, Alex found himself betrayed by the very sanctuary he had offered. Nova’s enigmatic presence had “invited” a staged robbery well planed performance so precise it left him shackled with £50,000 in debt to the same thieves who claimed not to know her or the “alleged” assault she had endured.

Yet Alex refused to accept the burden as his own. He didn’t believe he owed a single pound—morally or otherwise but something deeper gnawed at him. Was it betrayal, or manipulation disguised as suffering?

As dawn peeled back the shadows, he braced for answers. But Nova had already retreated mysteriously shielding herself behind silence and intermediaries, blaming him through the guardians. Tormented by the ache of uncertainty, Alex found himself suspended for days in a limbo of doubt—denied both confrontation and closure, haunted not by guilt, but by the need to understand.

And only because Alex had persistently and relentlessly sought the truth—believing that a single look would be enough to see it—did the confrontation finally happen three days later in Roath Park, like a carefully choreographed scene from an action film.

A procession of luxury and aging cars—Alex’s BMW, two Range Rovers, and an Audi A8 carrying the girl—pulled into a side street beneath a “No Parking” sign, creating an illusion of unity that made passersby turn their heads at the icy faces and the shattered trust lurking beneath them. The vibrant life of the park—a warm, sunny day filled with playing children, picnicking families, and colorful swan boats drifting across the lake—felt like bitter irony, joy disguising the threat of dark, unspoken emotional undercurrents gathering by the water’s edge. Sunlight danced on the lake’s ripples, but the air was heavy with the weight of unspoken words.

Alex listened with heightened attention, scanning every subtle signal in her body—every twitch of a finger, every averted gaze—searching for cracks in the mask, for lies hiding beneath the surface. Those signs whispered secrets the sun couldn’t chase away.

Her story began to unravel like a poorly spun fairy tale. One inconsistency after another, every avoided glance, every request for “space”—specifically from Alex—all screamed of manipulation. Though his rational mind acknowledged that trauma distorts memory, his instincts screamed louder, warning him of truths he could no longer afford to ignore.

Remember... we knew nothing about this girl from the onset; think about who brought her to you and when…he reminded himself.

Alex reminded himself to observe, letting his heightened awareness catalog every detail. Nova's gaze was somewhere else during key parts of her story, her hand movements unsettled with her sleeve when describing the attack. Her narrative shifted like mercury—fluid, impossible to grasp. When probed for details, she’d touch her neck, a self-soothing tell, before changing the subject. Ray and some other interruptions came too perfectly timed, cutting off Alex's probing questions with practiced concern. Their bodies were positioned to subtly shield her whenever Alex's inquiries grew too precise, a choreography of protection that felt rehearsed rather than natural, and at one point her sleeve slipped, revealing unmarked skin where she’d claimed bruises.

The Zen teaching echoed in his mind: truth wears no armor.  The inconsistencies piled up. Alex stood up and said to Ray, “She cannot stay in Cardiff.  Get her the fuck away from here, and I don't care where you are going to put her.”  The final act played out with brutal efficiency—Alex still feeling responsible for the girl, even if he did not believe a damn word she said, pulling out cash, ensuring her departure from the city. Alex stood up from the park bench and looked at the park clock. The park clock's dead face stared back: 3:33 Alex handed her the cash. Her smile didn’t reach her eyes; it felt like she was embarrassed to take it, like she didn't deserve it.'' 

As he drove away, his intuition and reality finally merged into a single, stark truth. He has been played, like a fucking puppy. As his BMW sped away, the ZEN van’s ghostly letters materialized in his rearview. This time, he didn’t look back. The price of this lesson wasn't measured in the debt they'd tried to put on him, but in the crystal-clear understanding that trust, once broken, reveals all the signs he should have seen from the start. The gang life he was leaving behind and severing all contacts.  The moment had taught him one mandatory lesson—in a world built on deception, truth becomes the most dangerous currency of all. Yet these lessons were still to be fully understood and integrated. Ready or not it would be tested by the universe itself.

NEXT WEEK! Chapter 31 : Where the old self breaks open

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