Chapter 4 #2
The city was visible from nearly every angle, but from this window, it felt closer. A vast sea of artificial lights pulsed below, headlights weaving bright trails, streetlamps casting sterile beams. The steady hum of ten-million lives thrummed faintly through the insulated glass.
Inside, the apartment remained motionless. A diorama of a life, not a life being lived.
Gael stood with his hands held loosely at his sides, his posture ramrod straight. His gaze traced the dark grid of the city below, but his mind drifted elsewhere.
Back to the office. To the dim, late-night lights of the sixteenth floor. To a boy with doe eyes.
Samuel’s breath, shallow and unsteady, rose again in Gael’s memory. The subtle quiver in his fingers. The frantic pulse at the base of his throat.
Gael exhaled once, a low stream of air, and reached for the heavy crystal decanter on the glass bar cart. The amber liquid inside caught the city lights as he poured a precise measure into a single, heavy glass. A familiar ritual meant to signal the end of the night, a clean shutdown.
He set the decanter back in its place. Lifted the glass. Looked at the liquid, swirling it once.
And didn’t drink.
He held it for a long moment, feeling the cold seep into his palm, before placing it down on the narrow, black marble ledge, leaving it untouched, the single ice cube already beginning to melt with small, quiet cracks.
The silence pressed in again, more insistent this time. But tonight, it didn't soothe. It grated.
Gael kept his eyes fixed on the cityscape but didn’t really see it. His thoughts were elsewhere; caught in a place he had no logical interest in and no desire to acknowledge.
∞∞∞
Samuel
Samuel pushed the door open with his shoulder, his hands too full of the day to bother with finesse.
The lock clicked softly behind him, sealing the apartment in the same cool quiet it always held.
He exhaled, long and thin, the kind of breath meant to steady but landing closer to resignation. His shoulders stayed tight.
The lights came on automatically, cold-white and indifferent, casting neat geometric shadows across the spotless hardwood floor. The apartment looked exactly as he’d left it that morning; pristine, minimalist, almost aggressively curated.
He didn’t turn on the television. Didn’t reach for the speaker. The only sound in the room was the muted scuff of his soles as he stepped inside.
Samuel shrugged out of his coat and hung it on the single rack beside the door, making sure the hem fell evenly. His keys went into the small black tray on the entryway shelf. Phone beside them. Both aligned.
He stood there for a moment, fingers still resting lightly on the edge of the tray, and let his gaze sweep the apartment.
The kitchen counters gleamed under the overhead lights, not a single dish left out.
The couch sat untouched, cushions angled just so.
His work bag leaned against the wall in its usual place, the slightest shift of the strap marking the only sign of movement since dawn.
A stack of case files rested evenly on the coffee table.
It all looked orderly. Predictable. Safe. And hollow.
Samuel inhaled slowly through his nose, the clean scent of wood polish filling his lungs. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. He wasn’t sure if liking it mattered. This was the space he’d built for himself; neat, quiet, controlled.
But tonight, the silence settled differently.
He stood in the entryway longer than necessary, shoulders still stiff, the tension from the office coiled tightly beneath his skin. His mind was still spinning; documents, deadlines, Gael’s voice, the weight of eyes on him he couldn’t explain.
He blinked once. Twice.
He loosened his tie as he walked toward the bedroom, slipping the narrow strip of fabric free from his collar with slow, careful movements. He draped it neatly over his hand, stilling the reflex to simply toss it onto the bed.
His watch came next, unbuckled with a soft click, the cool metal lifting from his wrist. He set it beside the folded tie on the velvet-lined tray atop the dresser, aligning both items just so.
In the kitchen, the digital clock glowed. He opened a cabinet, stared at the row of neatly arranged meal kits and untouched spices, and closed it again without choosing anything. His appetite had evaporated sometime between Gael’s voice saying Drink and the tremor in his own hand when he obeyed.
Instead, he reached for the bottle of scotch on the counter.
A small, measured pour. Neat. Barely a finger’s worth.
He carried the glass toward the window and stopped in front of the floor-to-ceiling pane. The liquid warmed faintly between his fingers, but he didn’t lift it to his lips.
The lights of the skyline glittered in orderly rows. He watched them, his reflection faint in the glass; shoulders hunched, hair falling out of place. He swallowed once, the sound too loud in the quiet.
No photographs decorated the walls. No framed moments. No clutter. No warmth.
The place didn’t feel like home; not in the way people used that word. It felt functional. Temporary. A space to sleep between shifts.
He set the scotch on the bedside table, untouched, its amber surface perfectly still.
Then he reached for the small drawer built into the table’s frame; the only drawer in the apartment with a lock. He hesitated for half a breath before sliding the small key from its hook beneath the tabletop.
Inside lay a single item.
A plain wooden cross. No polish. No carving. Old, worn smooth by years of handling, a dark scorch mark running diagonally across one edge.
Samuel stared at it, jaw tightening by degrees. His breath thinned, shallow and measured. His fingers twitched once at his side, then stilled.
Emotion didn’t cross his face. But something moved behind his eyes. Something dark, uninvited.
He reached out, not to touch it, but to close the drawer again. The soft click of the lock settling into place echoed louder than it should have.
He slid the key back into its hook.