Liberation

Chapter One

I suddenly emerged from my reverie, my Intuition guaging an intensity of danger. Instinctively—without hesitation, I drew my shashka from my waist sheath with a swift and deftly motion. As I departed the room, I moved efficiently and proficiently, my senses on high alert, the blade slanted between my hands, ready to be lethal, as I approached the edge of the stairs, the silence was thunderous—almost tangible, broken only by the soft rythmn of my breathing. I placed my right foot on the first step and it creaked beneath me, accommodating my weight. I continued to descend the grand staircase—my steps deliberate and precise; with each step the creaking grew fainter and the silence became unsettling.

My shoes landed flat on the mansion’s floor, the living room looked just as it did a few minutes ago; I departed— well versed, my vision fought for transparency with the dim lights of the mansion. I made it to the only bathroom on the ground floor—It's deserted. I headed to the foyer, finding it just as silent and abandoned as the rest of the house. The emptiness felt unsettling.

I return the blade to its rightful place—my waist. Yet still, the feeling didn't retreat, I only made a couple of uncounted steps before a presence infiltrated my being. A gun cocks, a fragrance that I've never smelt before invades the aroma as well. The barrel of the gun, penetrative— harmlessly, nudged the back of my head, their breathing even and tranquil.

"You're competent, but I'm excel" A man voiced, his tone low rumbling off his chest—unexpected, I can only imagine a smirk of satisfaction on his lips. I stood unnerved, hands at my side, "That's a little too, assumptive," I countered, with a look over my shoulder, it was pointless, the only thing I saw was his chest covered by what I can assume was an expensive suit.

"I’m accustomed to being called that," he remarked, his voice betraying a hint of amusement. Putting an end to my intriguement, I turned- right on cue as he tilted his chin up, his gaze on me from under his lashes, with the gun that's now aimed at my glabella separating us by inches. His dark brown irises held a depth that seemed to unravel the mysteries of the universe, each fleck of color dancing with intrigue. They sparkled with intelligence and wrath.

"Absolutely, I’m positive a visually impaired would've been able to see it as well," I grinned internally. He tilted his head to the side, an unreadable look invaded every emotion on his face, the closer his eyes got to meet mine—admiration? A well-groomed mustache adorned his upper lip, It was impeccably trimmed, framing his lips with precision and lending a hint of sophistication to his already striking features. Beneath his lower lip, a neatly trimmed beard completed the ensemble, accentuating the angular lines of his jaw and chin.

"Grasperable," his sight passed over me and he nodded reassuringly, suppressing his own grin.. I shoved a hand in the waist of my pants, only to come up with it empty. My eyes widened for a split second— he raised his other hand, My sight lingered on his wrist, where a gleaming Rolex watch rested, whispering of luxury and success. I noticed the cufflinks, each one a statement of sophistication and refinement but, more importantly, the blade that should be in my hand, balancing weightlessly on his pinky finger.

Patience, they never tell you how much you'll need to have to get through life—I've never had much of it, time waits on no man so why wait? 

In the dimly lit waiting area, shadows danced on the walls, concealing the room in front of me with a door. A room I know too well, the worn upholstery of the chair beneath me spoke of the countless times I've had to wait impatiently in this same spot, along with others who have occupied the same space. As my gaze wandered, into the familiar vicinity, I mused the irony of life's lessons: patience was hailed as a virtue, yet here I sat, a stranger to its calm embrace.

The ticking clock on the wall echoed like a persistent reminder, each second dragging on in a silent battle against my restless nature. I found myself tapping my fingers rhythmically, an unconscious rebellion against the enforced stillness. Life, I thought, was a labyrinth of waiting rooms, and mine is a journey measured not in patience, but in the anxious beats of an impatient heart.