As the golden hues of sunset melted into the office windows, a soft orange glow painted the walls in warmth that contradicted the day's earlier chaos. The tension between Joseph and David, which had earlier simmered like an overboiled kettle, had finally fizzled out—fading gently like the steam curling from a long-forgotten coffee mug on Joseph's desk. The usual hum of the overhead fluorescent lights blended into the distant murmurs of the city outside, leaving only the low clicking of a few computers and the occasional creak of office chairs.
In that calm, dimming silence, Joseph let out a small groan of relief and rolled his shoulders back. He stood up from his desk, stretching as though he were waking from a long dream, before casually strolling over to David's side. His voice came light, teasing, and laced with that familiar, brotherly mischief.
Placing a firm yet playful hand on David's shoulder, Joseph offered a grin that was both mock-serious and gently consoling. "Listen, my friend, beauties come and go. But brother, you must never—"
He didn't get the chance to finish.
David's chair spun around with the elegance of an overdramatic stage actor making his entrance. He raised an accusatory finger, his eyebrows practically leaping off his forehead. "They will go when they actually come to me first!" he snapped, his voice cracking with mock outrage. His face was the very picture of wounded pride—lower lip slightly jutted out; eyes narrowed into dramatic slits.
Joseph's composure cracked. He stifled a chuckle, nodding solemnly like a wise monk agreeing with a profound truth. "True, true. But hear me out—people who know you... they know how beautiful you are as a person."
David froze.
His expression shifted from fake annoyance to sheer confusion, as though someone had just complimented him on his knitting skills during a boxing match. He blinked. Once. Twice. And then leaned in slowly, narrowing his eyes.
"Beautiful?" he repeated, suspicion threading through every syllable. "What do you mean beautiful? I'm a wolf—a werewolf! I'm a manly guy, not some… some delicate flower!"
Joseph gave him an approving nod with all the mock sincerity he could muster. "Ah, yes. At least you're self-aware, my friend." His voice was smooth, teasing, perfectly delivered with a mischievous glint in his eyes that only made David grow redder by the second.
Grabbing his coat and swinging it over his shoulder with a dramatic flair, Joseph began walking toward the exit.
David stood frozen in his chair, stunned. A pause. A blink. And then it clicked.
"Hey! Wait a second!" David leapt to his feet, pointing in Joseph's direction with exaggerated panic. "What do you mean by that? I'm not less than anyone, okay?!"
Their footsteps echoed across the mostly empty hallway as their voices bounced off glass panels and tiled floors. Joseph walked with a lazy, confident swagger, smirking as David continued his barrage of flustered complaints, arms flailing wildly in frustration like a man being wrongfully evicted from his own delusion.
"You're just jealous," David grumbled, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets like a sulking schoolboy. "Because I could totally win over an angel if given the chance!"
Joseph raised an eyebrow, barely glancing over his shoulder. "Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."
As they pushed through the main office doors, the crisp air of early evening greeted them—cool, refreshing, and deceptively peaceful. But that serenity shattered the moment their shoes touched the pavement outside.
Without warning, chaos detonated.
The soft click of their footsteps was drowned in a sudden explosion of camera flashes, like fireworks going off directly in their faces. Reporters emerged from behind parked cars and office walls as if erupting from the shadows, swarming like a flock of crows descending upon fresh meat.
The air buzzed with rapid-fire questions, flying in from every direction. Microphones jutted forward like drawn swords. Cameras blinked furiously, the blinking lights stabbing into Joseph's vision like paparazzi strobe grenades.
"Mr. Joseph! A video of you breaking a coffee shop table with your bare hands is going viral. Do you have any comments?" shouted one man, nearly tripping over his own tripod in the scramble to get closer.
"Sir! Eyewitnesses claim they saw your car heading toward the cliff where the recent incident occurred. Can you confirm or deny your involvement in the commotion there?" another voice rang out, the woman's words sharp and practiced as she shoved a mic inch from his lips.
The frenzy was overwhelming.
Joseph stood still, caught like a deer in headlights, trying to process the ambush. The barrage of questions hit him like a tidal wave—every word adding another pound to the already heavy weight sitting on his chest. Behind him, David practically shrank into his jacket like a turtle retreating into its shell.
The camera flashes painted Joseph's stunned face in flickering whites and blues, casting long shadows on the pavement. The world slowed down. His heart pounded in his chest. Each reporter seemed louder than the last, each accusation heavier, each rumor more absurd than the one before.
He opened his mouth, ready to speak—to control the narrative, to protect the ones still tangled in this mess. He took a breath—
"ENOUGH!"
The single word sliced through the madness like a thunderclap.
The cacophony ceased.
Every head turned, as if compelled by an invisible force. Silence fell so fast it seemed unnatural.
Standing a few steps behind them was Thomas Blackwood. Imposing. Commanding. Timeless.
With his trench coat billowing ever so slightly in the wind and a perfectly sculpted frown gracing his lips, Thomas was the embodiment of calm authority wrapped in quiet thunder. His eyes, sharp and piercing, scanned the crowd with the cold precision of a seasoned general assessing a battlefield.
He stepped forward. Each movement was deliberate. Controlled. Dangerous.
"In our meeting," he began, his tone calm but brimming with gravitas, "we have given Joseph time to explain the events and the story behind them. We will proceed once that time frame has passed."
His eyes moved slowly over the stunned assembly of journalists, landing briefly on each one. No one dared interrupt.
"I understand your eagerness for a story," Thomas continued, his voice gaining steel, "but I urge you all to remember—we cannot ruin someone's life based on rumours."
Then came the pause. A pause that wasn't just silence—it was a warning.
"If they truly are just rumours."
He let the implication hang, thick in the air. The reporters shifted uncomfortably; their confidence dampened like flames doused with ice water. The questions dried up. Not a single flash followed.
Joseph exhaled quietly, tension easing from his shoulders, though his heart still thundered in his chest.
And beside him, David—eyes wide, mouth slightly agape—murmured, "Dude… your girlfriend's dad is terrifying."
Joseph looked towards David dead in his eyes. David looked in other direction as their eyes meet, like a puppy afraid.
The crowd seemed to collectively flinch under the weight of his gaze—those piercing eyes that held a quiet warning no reporter wanted to test. Slowly, microphones were lowered, and the rapid clicking of camera shutters came to an uneasy stop. Murmurs replaced the aggressive interrogation from earlier, whispers of uncertainty buzzing like low static.
With a subtle nod, Thomas turned to the guards standing along the gate perimeter. "Please ensure the path is cleared for the vehicles. We're done here."
The guards, professional and swift, began dispersing the crowd with polite but firm directions. The mass of media scattered reluctantly, a few reporters still muttering into their phones, others already editing headlines in their heads.
As the chaos retreated, Thomas walked past Joseph, his polished shoes clicking against the concrete in rhythm with the retreating storm. Without looking directly at him, he leaned in, his voice low and laced with amusement.
"Sorry to steal the limelight, Mr. Headline."
Joseph raised an eyebrow at the jab, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. A quiet chuckle slipped out as he shook his head. "Thanks for the save," he muttered sincerely.
Thomas gave a faint wave of acknowledgment, his silhouette illuminated briefly by the flash of a reporter's departing camera. With the effortless grace of a man used to commanding rooms—and defusing mobs—he disappeared into the sleek black car waiting nearby. The door closed with a soft thunk, and just like that, the field general was gone.
Joseph and David followed soon after, heading to their own vehicle. The moment the doors shut and the outside noise dulled to a quiet hum, David let out a dramatic sigh, slumping in his seat like a deflated balloon.
"I'm telling you, man…" he grumbled, rubbing his temples. "You've got the worst luck I've ever seen. Why can't I be the one getting mobbed by angels or models? Instead of you get ambushed by a battalion of vultures with microphones."
Joseph rolled his eyes as he adjusted the mirror. "Maybe because I'm just more… headline-worthy?" His tone was dry, just enough bite to make it sting.
David's head snapped toward him with narrowed eyes. "Oh, shut up," he shot back, crossing his arms like a child who'd just lost an argument to a vending machine.
The engine purred to life, and the car slipped onto the open road. Buildings began to thin as the city slowly receded behind them. Streetlights passed in steady intervals, throwing patches of yellow light into the car's interior, highlighting the thoughtful frown that slowly crept across Joseph's face.
He gripped the wheel tighter.
"David," he began, his voice shifting from playful to serious in a heartbeat. "Did you hear that question? About eyewitnesses seeing my car near the cliff?"
David, still rubbing his wrist, perked up. "Yeah… why?"
Joseph's brow furrowed. "How could they be that accurate? That road is practically deserted at night. No pedestrians, no surveillance. It's isolated for a reason."
The car fell silent. Only the soft hum of the engine remained.
David's smile faded as the weight of Joseph's words settled in. He leaned forward slightly, glancing out the window with sudden unease. "You're right," he said after a beat. "It doesn't add up. It's almost like…"
He hesitated, then turned to look Joseph square in the eye.
"...like someone's watching us. Tracking our every move."
Neither of them spoke after that.
The tension thickened between them, unspoken questions lingering in the space like storm clouds. The laughter and banter from earlier now felt like a distant memory—one they could barely afford to enjoy.
The car continued down the road, swallowed slowly by the night.
Meanwhile, back at the Enigma building, the scene had returned to its ghostly stillness. The reporters were long gone. The echoes of confrontation had faded into the city's distant heartbeat. But not all eyes had left.
A shadow still lingered.
Hidden just beyond the range of the streetlamps, a figure stood silently, his silhouette perfectly still against the dim backdrop of the office's main gate.
His hand lifted, pressing a sleek, black phone to his ear.
"You don't have to be sad," the figure whispered, voice smooth—almost soothing, but with a mischievous undertone that curled like smoke. "I'll contact you when I have more updates. You'll get your time and location."
On the other end, the reporter's voice buzzed with excitement. "Thank you, sir. Because of you, we got a clip of Sir Thomas today. We'll wait for your further updates."
The call ended with a soft beep.
The figure lowered the phone with a smirk.
The hush returned… until the faint crinkle of a cigarette wrapper broke the quiet. A hand dipped into a jacket pocket, retrieving a worn packet. The soft rustle of foil, the click of a lighter, and a brief flame revealed his face.
ADAM.
The faint glow from the cigarette lit his features just enough. His eyes, cold and calculating. His expression unreadable—but sharp.
He exhaled, the smoke curling around his head like a halo made of fog.
"You've played your part well tonight," he murmured to himself, voice barely audible. "But this is only the beginning."
He took one final drag.
The cigarette's ember flared, then dimmed.
He flicked it to the ground, crushing it beneath his heel.
Then, without a sound, he turned and vanished into the shadows—leaving behind only a faint scent of smoke and a promise that the storm… was far from over.
As the darkness swallowed Adam's figure, only questions remained. Why was he creating the chaos from behind the curtains? What did he stand to gain from leaking Joseph's whereabouts and tracking his every move? Was he merely a pawn... or the very puppeteer pulling every string? And worst of all—was he the same shadowed presence from the night Lopez was attacked?
To Be Continued...