Chapter 17: The Night of the Storm
The night Albert had chosen for his next "session" with a struggling tenant, a relatively new arrival named Mark, was also the night the heavens opened. A tropical downpour, a sudden, furious deluge typical of the Ilocos Region, began just as darkness fell. Rain lashed against the windows, driven by a strong, howling wind, turning the vibrant city outside into a blurred, shimmering watercolor. For Lara, it was a cruel twist of fate, the storm reflecting the tempest raging within her. For their plan, however, it was a gift. The violent weather would muffle sounds, deter curious eyes, and create a perfect shroud for their dark purpose.
Lara watched Albert from the living room, a practiced mask of quiet resignation on her face. He was in his element tonight, a predator anticipating his prey. He had dismissed Mark to wait in the ground-floor office, enjoying the prolonged anticipation. He then casually instructed Lara to ready herself for a later "discussion" with Mark, his eyes gleaming with that chilling, possessive pleasure. Lara simply nodded, her gaze blank, her stomach churning.
As the clock crept towards ten, Albert retreated to his study, the faint clink of glass preceding his usual whiskey ritual. Lara, feigning weariness, excused herself to the bedroom, leaving the door slightly ajar. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Every creak of the old house, every shriek of the wind, sounded like a drumbeat counting down to an irreversible act.
Below, in the labyrinthine corridors of the complex, Nick moved like a shadow. He had donned dark clothing, his face grim, focused. The incessant drumming of rain on the corrugated roofs of the lower units and the roar of the wind were his allies, drowning out the soft scrape of his shoes on the concrete. He reached the maintenance closet on the fourth floor, the location Lara had meticulously pointed out. His hands, usually so steady with circuits, trembled slightly as he located the correct fuse box, the one marked with a barely visible chalk "P" – for Penthouse. A quick, decisive flick. The hum of the cameras on the upper floors died, replaced by silence.
With the first hurdle cleared, Nick ascended the service stairs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. The roof was a maelstrom of wind and rain, the gusts threatening to rip him from his feet. He crawled on all fours to the edge overlooking the penthouse balcony, the cold, wet concrete biting into his knees. Below, the light from Albert's study glowed faintly through the driving rain. And, just as Lara had predicted, the balcony door was ajar, a small gap inviting the storm inside.
He uncoiled the thin, sturdy rope he'd packed, securing one end to a heavy, rusted pipe he'd found on the roof. The descent was terrifying, the rain blinding, the wind a physical force trying to tear him away. He scraped his hands on the rough concrete, but adrenaline surged through him, pushing him forward. He reached the balcony railing, swung his leg over, and landed silently on the tiled floor.
Inside, Albert's silhouette was visible through the glass door, seated at his desk, whiskey glass in hand. He hadn't heard a thing over the tempest.
Nick’s gaze swept the study, locating the heavy crystal paperweight on the corner of the desk, glinting malevolently in the lamplight. His eyes hardened. There was no going back now. The keys to desire had led them to this moment, where the only thing left to unlock was retribution. He took a deep, shuddering breath and pushed the balcony door open further, stepping into the unholy stage.
ns216.73.216.251da2
