The Sinner of Mute

The bathroom of La Serpiente Dorada was a gilded cage of its own mirrored walls, black marble floors, orchids floating in onyx sinks.

Sorina lingered by the door, her hands trembling as she gestured to Lucien "bathroom" He nodded curtly, his gaze never leaving the Colombian cartel boss he was discussing some casual things with.

Inside, she splashed water on her face, the pendant's chain clinking against the porcelain.

Her reflection mocked her hollow eyes, lips bitten raw, the bruise on her collarbone peeking above the gown's neckline.

The door creaked. Marisol slipped in, her sequined costume shimmering under the harsh lights.

Up close, her beauty was almost violent curls like spun gold, lips stained wine-red, the rose tattoo curling up her neck like a lover's hand.

She leaned against the sink, feigning concern.

"You're his wife," she said, her Spanish sweetened by a practiced innocence. "The mute one."

Sorina froze, water dripping from her chin.

Marisol lowered her voice. "Did he force you? You don't... look happy."

Sorina's breath hitched. She glanced at the door, then back at Marisol. Her hands fluttered, tentative "Help me leave." Her hope rising with the thought maybe she could help.

Marisol's eyes widened. "You want to... escape"

Sorina nodded, desperation cracking her mask.

A flicker of triumph crossed Marisol's face. She masked it with a sympathetic pout. "There's a service exit behind the kitchen. The guards are lazy they smoke outside at this hour."

She handed her a cocktail napkin. " 抖阴社区 down your the address you want to go to... then give this to the taxi driver. He will take you there Vete rápido." (Go quickly.)
Sorina hurriedly wrote down her previous home address, the handwriting messy but it's readable.
Sorina clutched the napkin, her heart a trapped bird.

---

Marisol peered into the hallway. "Clear. Now."

Sorina darted past the kitchen, heels silent on the greasy tiles. A guard laughed outside, his cigarette glow faint through the cracked door.

She slipped into the alley, the stench of garbage and urine sharp in her lungs.

A taxi idled at the curb, its driver scrolling on his phone.

"¿A dónde?" he grunted when he saw her approaching him. (Where to?)

Sorina shoved the napkin at him. The address: Calle de los Suspiros 12. Her desert...her home.

The driver frowned. "¿Estás bien?" (Are you okay?)

She nodded, sliding into the backseat.

As the car pulled away, she pressed her face to the window, watching the bar's neon serpent shrink into the night.
....

Marisol sauntered back to the dance floor, her hips swaying with newfound confidence.

Lucien's laugh cut through the music cold, sharp. He snapped his fingers at a waitress. "Check on my wife ... whats taking ehr so long in bathroom?!"

The waitress scurried off, returning minutes later, pale. "No está allí, señor." (She's not there.)

Lucien stood slowly. The music died. Patrons froze, glasses halfway to lips.

"Search. Everywhere."

His voice was calm, but his knuckles whitened around his glass. He hurled it against the wall, tequila and shards exploding.

The Colombians edged back.

Marisol's smile faltered. She ducked behind the bar as Lucien's guards stormed past, radios crackling.

"Bring her to me," Lucien hissed, "or I'll burn this city to find her."

---

Sorina's fingers dug into the taxi's torn upholstery. The driver eyed her in the rearview. "¿Problemas?"

She shook her head, signing faster with frantic hands. The city blurred neon signs, stray dogs, the occasional flash of police lights.

At Calle de los Suspiros. The taxi slowed.

Sorina's taxi skidded to a halt at the edge of the arroyo, the driver refusing to venture further into the dust-choked darkness.

Sorina tossed the driver Lucien's diamond cufflink stolen earlier and her bare feet sinking into the cold sand, the address clutched in her hand Calle de los Suspiros 12 now a cruel joke.

The caravan was close, its fires just beyond the next ridge.

---

**The Bar**

Marisol finished her set, sweat gluing sequins to her skin. Lucien's guards returned empty-handed.

He grabbed her wrist, getting suspicious of her nervous behaviour , his grip bruising. "Where is she?"

Marisol forced tears. "No sé, señor! I-I saw her go to the bathroom, that's all!"

He threw her aside, her hip cracking against the stage. "Find her."

As he stormed out, Marisol clutched her side, her dream of replacing Sorina crumbling.

"Stupid me", she thought. "He'll never love anyone."