Storm's eyes swept over Miguel's stone-cold demeanor and poise, a silent, trembling brush that moved from the man's face and tightened jaws down to the fingers Miguel fixed his own gaze on.
Miguel wagged those fingers in a poisonous manner across his line of sight, looking unfazed as usual, a predator counting the seconds.
After an unnecessary slack of time, a silence that lingered and thickened like heavy incense, Miguel just kept looking at his calloused fingers for no important reason at all, letting the suspense rot the air.
Suddenly, he kicked his feet down. They flew off the table in a calculated, maintained rhythm, landing on the marble floor with a sharp ripple that shattered the dizzying silence like glass.
Miguel let out a sharp, performative exhale. He slowly turned his gaze to Storm, who took a quick, jagged gulp of saliva that pulled every vein out of his neck, his pulse visible against his skin.
And finally..... "How are you, Storm?" Miguel began.
His voice was a mask of mock concern that reeked with the oily undertones of an interrogation.
Storm managed a stiff, wooden nod as he muttered a dry, "I'm good."
Miguel's lips folded upward, reciprocating the nod with an implying rhythm. Unannounced, he kicked to his feet.
The sudden motion made Storm reach for the bag held to his thighs in a frantic reflex, an action that earned him a cold, predatory pause from Miguel.
Pull yourself together, Storm, he sneered inwardly, his heart hammering against his ribs. But he knew there was nothing he could do; he was afraid, and fear had its own cruel way of playing with a man's control.
Miguel caught the act. For some reason, it amused him even as it enraged him more, the fact that Storm was fully aware of why Miguel was there and was actually ready to defend himself. As if he stood a chance. The absurdity of it almost pulled a mocking smile onto Miguel's face.
Miguel tried to crush the man with his gaze, but Storm wouldn't allow it; he avoided the contact by any means he could, staring at anything but those dark, judging eyes.
Miguel straightened his long jacket and, with a slow, arrogant stride, walked over to the office's gigantic window, as he crossed his arms behind his back in a posture of self-authority that spoke volumes.
He shut his eyes for a microsecond, letting the sun that washed through the large crystal graze his face and his full, imposing frame.
"Take a look at the view," Miguel said in a chilly whisper. It was mostly to himself, but loud enough for Storm to hear. He looked slightly over his shoulder in anticipation for a verbal contribution, his profile sharp against the light.
"Yes—yes, it is... I love the view from there," Storm stuttered. It was a failed attempt to sugarcoat the jagged tension in his voice with a nervous laugh.
"It's..."
"It's evidence of what money can buy you, Storm," Miguel reminded him, cutting the man off.
He took a step to the side, his clicking heels the only breaching noise in the cavernous office.
Each click sent shivers like frozen seeds down Storm's spine. Miguel finally halted at the far end, his broad, thick shoulders blocking Storm's view of the horizon.
Miguel softly brushed the glass with his fingertips. "Triple-laminated tempered monolith... costs billions. That's power, Storm," Miguel said, letting the silence simmer until it nearly boiled.
"I gave you that power, Storm."
Storm shifted with agonizing unease in his seat. "...And I'm grateful, Miguel. I'll always be. Forever." It was a reassurance that came out flat, unsteady, and transparently desperate.
Miguel gave a slow, rhythmic nod, giving the man the brief, cruel illusion that he was convinced.
"Your debts," he said, stealing a quick glance back at Storm before returning his attention to his precious view.
"It has grown to outrageous amounts. I was even planning on letting it all go... you know, bygones be bygones," Miguel said.
He had been studying Storm the entire time without the man's knowledge, watching the frantic twitching via his faint reflection on the glass.
Storm couldn't handle the tension and the fear pressing into his chest. He felt like he would explode if this didn't end. In that moment of suffocating pressure, he came to the difficult conclusion to carry out his initial plan.
His hand began to creep toward the gun inside his bag, ready to fire, but then came Miguel's unpredictable words.
Storm's zeal capsized and sank immediately, replaced by a flood of core guilt. He slowly retreated his hand, an act that pulled a dark smirk onto Miguel's face in the reflection.
"You know, I've been thinking....it was really selfish of me to pin you with a debt that large, meanwhile, all this while, you have families to take care of," Miguel said, his tone soft and oblivious.
"I am bigger than what you owe me, so I am here to tell you that I am letting it all go."
The words were so gentle that Storm's eyes went glossy with tears. Miguel didn't turn, but he could hear the ragged, heavy sigh of relief leave Storm's lungs.
It was the moment Miguel had been waiting for. The relief.
"It would have been like this if you just met me like a reasonable man. That would have been my reply," Miguel said, finally turning fully toward Storm.
His face was a mask of death. "But it will all be figments of the past soon!"
The air froze.
The large room became suddenly too small to share. Those words sent waves of dread into the air that transcribed fully onto Storm's collapsing face.
"No—it's not like that!" Storm cried, stretching forth a trembling hand. He shook his head in frantic regret, as if the gesture alone could stop Miguel's approach.
He pleaded with a pure, raw panic, realizing he had been disarmed psychologically, left empty, powerless, and forced to wallow in guilt before the end.
Storm hunched over his seat in total surrender, sobbing frantically.
"I'm really sorry, Miguel, please! It was the work of the devil... it was Scarlet!"
Miguel walked toward the man, his expression capable of freezing a lake.
"You used to be a good boy, Stormy," Miguel said with a sharp, dismissive click of his tongue.
"Call the devil a motherfucker when you get there."
Standing only a few feet away, Miguel watched Storm sob like a toddler with nose drools.
Storm knew it was over; his mind was flooded with the faces of his family as he wept.
With a methodical, mysterious grace, Miguel pulled a gun from his belt, leveling the barrel directly at Storm's skull.
It was time to finish the business.
"Goodbye, Storm. You'll see me there someday, but it's certainly going to be quite a long wait."
Before Miguel's finger could finally press the trigger, the door aggressively flung open, slamming against the wall.
"Oh my fucking coochies! These insufferable bum ass, guards!"
To be continued...