Chapter 18: The Strike
The sudden shift in the wind's shriek as Nick pushed open the balcony door was the only warning Albert received. He looked up from his documents, whiskey glass poised mid-air, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. Before he could voice a complaint, before the question could fully form in his mind, Nick was inside.
The sight of Nick, soaked and menacing, standing in his study, was clearly not what Albert had expected. His eyes widened, not with fear initially, but with a bewildered arrogance, as if the very presence of a tenant in his private sanctum was an act of unthinkable audacity. "What the hell do you think—" Albert began, his voice laced with the usual disdain he reserved for his less fortunate tenants.
But Nick didn't speak. He couldn't. His mind was a maelstrom of fear, rage, and the vivid memories of humiliation. The shame of that night, the cold indifference in Albert's eyes, Lara's silent plea—it all coalesced into a singular, overwhelming drive. His gaze locked onto the heavy crystal paperweight, glinting innocently on the corner of the desk. It was solid, perfectly weighted for the task.
Albert, now seeing the grim determination in Nick's eyes, the sheer desperation that transformed the usually timid student, finally registered the danger. His face paled. He started to rise, to push back his chair, the whiskey glass forgotten. "Get out! I'll call security—"
Nick didn't hesitate. Every ounce of his pent-up rage, every fragment of his shattered dignity, poured into his movements. He lunged across the desk, a desperate, guttural cry tearing from his throat, muffled by the storm's fury. His hand closed around the crystal paperweight, its cool, smooth surface a jarring contrast to the heat of his anger.
Albert, caught off guard, stumbled backward, his eyes widening in pure, primal terror. He threw up a hand, a futile attempt to ward off the inevitable.
The sound of the impact was dull, sickeningly soft amidst the howling wind and torrential rain. A single, choked gasp escaped Albert's lips as his eyes rolled back. His body stiffened for a terrifying second, then crumpled, falling heavily to the floor beside his overturned chair. The whiskey glass shattered, sending shards of crystal scattering across the rich rug, mirroring the fragments of the life that had just ended.
Nick stood frozen, the heavy paperweight still clutched in his hand, his chest heaving, his breath ragged. The storm outside seemed to intensify, a fitting backdrop to the brutal act he had just committed. The rush of adrenaline slowly receded, leaving behind a cold, desolate emptiness. He looked down at Albert's still form, his face a contorted mask of relief, horror, and a terrifying clarity. It was done.
A moment later, the bedroom door opened. Lara emerged, wrapped in a silk robe, her face pale, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something akin to morbid fascination. She hadn't seen the strike, but the sound, the absolute cessation of all noise from Albert, had been enough. Her gaze swept over the scene: the overturned chair, the shattered glass, and Albert, sprawled lifelessly on the floor. Her eyes met Nick's, and in that silent, shared gaze, a new, terrifying chapter began. The keys to desire had not only opened doors, but had unlocked death itself.
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