The Zillionaire's wrath

CHAPTER 3: The Shadow of the Night

 

I stood there in the dark hallway, my life felt like it was completely over.

I had no one to call and no where to go. I had no family and I scoffed bitterly when I thought of how desperate I had been to get back to Samantha.

 My mind flashed back to a week ago, a small, desperate act of defiance. I had hidden some spare change under the foot mat outside my door during one of the endless arguments Samantha and her friends had forced upon me. 

She would have wanted me to waste it on drinks for them, but I had stashed it away, choosing to starve rather than surrender the last of the little money I had.

I knelt, my fingers trembling as I reached under the mat. My heart skipped a beat when I felt the familiar weight of coins. I pulled them out, jiggling the metal in my palm like a prayer.

My chest bubbled with relief and I heaved a sigh. It wasn’t enough to fix my life, but it was enough to numb the edges. I didn't care about food anymore; the hunger in my stomach was nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest.

"At least when I’m drunk," I muttered to nothing in particular, "I won’t feel the floor beneath me."

I stumbled into a dive bar at the end of the block. It was a grimy, boisterous place, the kind of place where dreams go to die. I walked up to the counter, my voice barely sounding so thin that I didn’t even recognize it. "I’ll have a bottle of beer."

The barman, a hulking man with a bald, glistening head and a stained apron, didn’t even look up as he poured a drink for someone else. I glanced over my shoulder, the noise of the room hitting me like a physical force. 

Strippers moved on the poles at the center of the room, their bodies illuminated by cheap, flickering neon and sleek body oil. I looked away quickly, my face flushing, but the barman chuckled.

"Everyone tries to look away at first, kid," he said, his voice like gravel. "But by the end of the night, everyone finds themselves staring."

I didn't answer. I just kept my eyes glued to the scarred wood of the counter.

"You look like absolute hell," he added, his tone softening just enough to be insulting. "Ditch the beer. You need something that hits harder. Whiskey."

I hesitated. "How much for a glass?"

He appraised me with a heavy, tired gaze. "Two dollars."

My heart dropped cruelly and I sighed again,  "I only have a few cents."

He frowned, ready to brush me off, but something in my posture—the absolute collapse of my spirit—must have caught him. He sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his belly. "Stay put. I’ll get you the drink. You look like you’ve been run over by a train."

"Thank you," I whispered.

I sipped the whiskey. It was my first time drinking anything stronger than a light lager, and the burning sensation in my throat felt like a baptism of fire. I stopped caring about the strippers. I stopped caring about Samantha. I stopped caring about the future. I sat there in the haze, waiting for the alcohol to scrub my brain clean.

It was when I finally set my empty glass down that the atmosphere in the room curdled. Two men sat down on the stools next to me. They were dressed in black suits, sharp and unforgiving, with dark sunshades that made them look like predators lurking in the light. A shrill, instinctive chill raced up my spine. My skin was littered with goosebumps in a split second.

I didn't look at them. I couldn't dare to! I thanked the barman, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm, and slid off the stool. I walked toward the door, my pace measured, but the moment I stepped onto the street, I just lost it and broke into a run.

Bang!

The sound ripped through the chill night air, so loud it felt like it had fractured my skull. My heart stopped.

A gunshot.

It wasn't a movie effect. It was the sharp, metallic reality of death.A cold rush of panic seized me. I heard another shot, closer this time, and the air filled with the screams of people stampeding out of the bar. 

I didn't look back. I ran until my lungs felt like they were filled with crushed glass and until my legs were nothing but rubber.

I collapsed against a brick wall in an alleyway I didn't recognize. "What the hell is going on?" I gasped, clutching my chest.

The neighborhood was strange to me. The streetlights flickered, throwing long, skeletal shadows across the pavement. My vision blurred suddenly like something had taken hold of my senses. I tried to stand, but the ground tilted, and I felt myself losing the battle against gravity.

A loud screeching sound rang into my ears as a dozen black SUVs swerved into view, boxing me in, their high-beam headlights blinding me. I shielded my eyes, reeling from the sudden glare. Figures rushed out of the vehicles—men in the same sharp, black suits as the strangers in the bar.

"Holy shit," I breathed with terror.

My knees gave out. As I hit the pavement, the last thing I saw was a pair of polished, white shoes stepping into my field of vision. A man in an immaculate white suit stood over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. 

Then, the darkness closed in, and I didn't feel anything at all.