CHAPTER 20: THE SIENCE AT 7:15

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Louis’ POV

7:15 p.m.

That was the time.

I remember because everything about that evening felt staged — like one of those old black-and-white dramas where the silence was louder than the dialogue. I’ve always been a dramatic person, or so I like to think. Romantic too, in a tragic kind of way.

But tonight... there was no romance. Only shadows.

It was 7:13 when I first checked the clock. Darker than it should’ve been for that hour — maybe the clouds decided to linger, maybe the world just wanted to look a little uglier tonight. I was in the garage. Not the kind anyone keeps cars in — no, this one hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Dust, oil, rust. And silence. A place people knew not to come to.

And there he was.

Blindfolded. Miserable. His hair a wild mess like he’d fought the air itself. He wore nothing but his briefs, black stockings, and those brown shoes — the kind only a journalist with too much confidence and too little money would wear. His wrists were cuffed behind the chair, metal biting into skin that had already started to bruise. His feet chained down too. I made sure of that. I’m careful, not cruel — just precise.

He couldn’t speak, not with the gag in his mouth. The last thing I needed was his pathetic begging disrupting the rhythm I’d worked so hard to build.

Michael stood beside me — my assistant, my shadow in things like this. He knew what to do without being told.

Then, my phone buzzed.

Alistair.

Of all times, it had to be him.

I sighed, pulled off one glove, and answered.

"Hello, Alistair," I said softly, watching the trembling man in front of me. "How are you?"

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"I’m great," Alistair said through the phone, his voice bright, almost too casual.

"Oh, that’s nice to know, Alistair," I replied, forcing a smile that no one could see. "These past few days in Elhurst have felt nothing short of an adventure. The foreign investors were a bunch of bastards — always trying to make me seem small. But guess what? I made them seem non-existent."

He laughed softly. "You don’t need to explain. I get it — business talk."

"Exactly," I said, pacing slowly across the dim garage floor. "It’s just the businessman’s way of saying I impressed them. And... Michael’s right here, by the way. Want to say hello to my dearest assistant?"

Michael, standing silently by the table of tools, looked up at me in confusion.

"Yes, Michael," I went on, still smiling into the phone. "No, I told him — I told him everything." My tone was cheerful, maybe too much so. "Oh, and I’ve also got a journalist here with me. Right close to me."

I moved toward the bound man. His breath was ragged beneath the gag, his whole body trembling. I held the phone near his face, close enough for Alistair to hear the muffled noises.

"He’s... busy at the moment," I said quietly, almost enjoying the way the journalist flinched at every sound.

There was something terrible — and familiar — in the pleasure I felt. That dark, buried part of me I thought I’d buried for good was rising again.

I pulled the phone back before he could make another sound.

"Louis," Alistair’s voice suddenly shifted — softer now, unsure. "That’s not what I meant to call about. I... I needed to tell you something."

I frowned. "What is it?"

He hesitated, and when he spoke again, his voice was shaking.

"Charles — I mean, Charles had a fever. Remember I told you three days ago he stopped eating? He’s been... off. Depressed. But... this morning, Mother found him."

My grip on the phone tightened. "Found him?"

"With a mirror," Alistair said, stumbling over the words. "A broken mirror. He was—trying to slice his neck with one of the shards."

The sound left me completely still. For a second, I thought maybe I’d misheard.

Michael turned sharply toward me. I hadn’t even realized I’d switched the call to loudspeaker.

Alistair kept talking, his voice cracking. "Mother saw everything. She’s still trying to talk to him, but he won’t respond. Anna tried too, but he’s shut everyone out. I don’t think he even knows what he’s doing anymore."

I was silent. Completely silent.

"I know my brother," I said weakly. "He’s always like that — he doesn’t ask for help unless it’s too late. He hides it, tries to fix it himself, just like when we were kids. Remember his homework? Always waiting until the deadline, pretending he didn’t need anyone, and then failing over and over again."

He tried to laugh, but it came out wrong — broken. "Don’t worry. He’ll be okay right?? At least... until I come back, we’ll figure something out. Okay, Louis?"

I could only manage a low hum. My throat had gone dry.

"Okay," I whispered.

Then the call ended.

The line went dead.

I slid the phone back into my pocket and pulled on my glove again. My hands were trembling — from anger, from grief, from something nameless sitting in my chest.

Michael was still staring at me. His face was pale.

"Louis...?" he started.

But I didn’t answer.

I turned toward the trembling journalist.

The man who had dared to stick his big, ugly nose into my business.

And this time, I wasn’t pretending anymore.

I hummed in a low voice as I slipped my ugly glove back onto my hand.

Humming, humming — I didn’t even know what tune it was. Just a sound to fill the space, to keep the dark from getting louder.

My gloved hand wrapped around his neck and I squeezed.

Hard.

He coughed and growled through the gag, thrashing against the chair.

When I let go, I pulled the stuffed cloth from his mouth and tore the blindfold away. He gasped for air like a drowning man, tears spilling down his face.

Hazel eyes.

He had hazel eyes — trembling, defiant, wet. Average-looking, really, but that fear made them glow.

"Michael," I said quietly, straightening. "Have you heard from Bill?"

Michael blinked, confused by the shift in tone. "Bill? Yes. He said everything at the office is fine. He’s running further checks — making sure there aren’t any spies or suspicious activity among the workers."

"Good," I said, nodding. "Bill has always been good at his work."

Then I turned back to the man in the chair.

"Now," I said softly, smiling. "Let’s continue, shall we? Hello, Mr. Journalist... or should I say, Mr. Johnny Pearl. Hi."

He stared at me, breathing hard.

"Mr. Pearl, look at me. Stop glaring."

I crouched down, meeting his shaking gaze. "Now, I want you to tell me everything. Absolutely everything."

"I—I don’t know," he stammered. "I don’t know anything. I’m just a journalist, okay? I disguised myself as one of your workers to see if there was any illegal business going on. I’ve been working here for months, and I—I stumbled onto something I shouldn’t have. You found me, that’s all. It seems you already set a trap."

"We always set traps," I said calmly. "Our workers know not to fall for them. When they do... there are consequences. You’re dealing with one now."

His eyes darted nervously between me and Michael.

"I don’t want any rats under my nose," I continued, voice low. "Do you get what I mean?"

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

I leaned closer. "You. You shouldn’t have done this. You’re nothing — a small, inconsistent entity. A ghost in ink. Why would they send you of all people? Because they were afraid to come to me face-to-face?"

I straightened, letting my words hang heavy in the air.

"I control everything," I said quietly. "My biggest opponent is myself. Every research facility that runs underground, every illegal channel — I built them. I run them. I’m the head. I’m the one who made the investigators fall."

He stared at me in horror.

"I control everything," I repeated, a soft laugh breaking through. "Everywhere. The biggest journalists work under me. The richest infrastructures, the most powerful industries — all of them. They investigate me, they think they can catch me... but they can’t. Because before anything happens, I’ve already done something about it."

I took a slow step closer.

"Even if you had the information, even if you tried to expose me, someone else would take the blame. That’s how it works. Always."

He flinched as I leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper.

"Tell me, Mr. Pearl," I said. "Did you ever think about your wife and your two children before you came here? Did you think about them when you decided to play hero — just so your name could be printed on some cheap paper?"

He said nothing.

I smirked. "Your story would’ve gone something like this, right? ’Mr. Pearl, the fearless journalist, risked his life uncovering corruption in the Elhurst network...’" I mocked his tone. "Blah, blah, blah — dirty, wet, undone, dead. You wouldn’t even make it to the next edition."

I stepped back and flexed my hand. "My accomplices aren’t many, Mr. Pearl. For one reason."

I leaned forward again, voice barely a whisper.

"They don’t live long enough to tell what I do to them."