Miguel deliberately let the tension marinate, allowing it to seep deeply into the atmosphere and further into Storm's marrow.
But that wasn't the only reason for the delay; this silence was a tactical sanctuary, a way he could help put his own emotions together and maintain a stranglehold over his demons.
Those dark impulses struggled to tear their way through and take over his actions, which Miguel knew would be far too messy, too dramatic, for the clean end he envisioned.
"You don't look happy to see me,"
Miguel finally broke the silence the sound of his voice echoing through the stagnant air, his tone oozing a certain kind of calculated and concise calm.
It was a cold frequency that shattered Storm's internal train of survival... or rather, the frantic, suicidal thoughts that were currently flooding the old man's brain.
The first instinct that clawed at Storm's mind was to make the first move: to kill the killer before the strike could land.
Still, he knew that would be beyond risky and inherently stupid. Miguel was certainly not alone, Storm had analyzed, and with the extreme fear and panic enveloping his body and contaminating his bloodstream, he knew with a sickening certainty that he would miss the first shot.
He would likely forget how to even pull the trigger.
He was still drowning in this paralyzed trance when Miguel's chilled voice came again, soft and void of anything overtly malicious.
Yet, it possessed the power to snap Storm back into reality,so strong and capable to make a grown man sit tight and awkwardly upright in their chair.
Barely hanging onto the jagged edges of his composure, Storm summoned a flicker of courage and took a snappy, quick assessment of Miguel's face.
To Storm's desperate eyes, Miguel didn't look like he had come for blood or anything wicked and vengeful, this brought a small, flickering flash of hope to him.
Maybe he isn't here to end it, but to actually talk it out, Storm thought, as he forced a swallow that felt almost impossible against his constricted throat before raising his eyes to meet Miguel's flat, unreadable face again.
Miguel, noticing the inner back-and-forth spiraling inside Storm's mind, didn't hesitate to use the opening to push forward.
"What is it, Storm? You look restless. Like you've seen a ghost," Miguel pressed, his eyes tracking the minute tremors in the other man's jaw.
Storm shook his head in a display of blatant ignorance and a flimsy pretense of confusion. "Ah! It's just... It's just that, I wasn't expecting you," Storm stammered, offering a shallow, unprepared lie. "You could have called beforehand so I would host a feast like I always do. You know—giiirrlls! Wiiine! And maybe boys!" Storm attempted a dry joke, letting out a nervous, wheezing laugh that died lonely in the large room. "But since you are here, please tell me, to what do I owe this surprise visit?"
Miguel gave a slow, rhythmic nod, coupled with a smile that didn't reach his predatory eyes.
"Definitely a surprise," Miguel muttered in a low tone, just loud enough for Storm to catch the jagged fragments of the words.
For another loop of quiet seconds, Miguel did nothing but study Storm who looked so uncomfortable in his stance, it was as if the ground which he stood on was beginning to burn, his posture bombarding Miguel with a thousand foolish, unspoken questions.
'He must be delusional to think I'm falling for this fake generosity', Miguel spat inwardly, the disgust almost flashing on his eyebrows.
"What's the matter, Storm?" Miguel asked again, his voice a smooth blade. "You do not look happy to see me at all. Am I not allowed to visit a friend?" He added, with that unsettling, casual smile, his eyes firmly fixed on Storm as if the man would evaporate if he shifted his gaze.
In fact, he stared right past Storm, searching and digging deep into the rot of his soul.
Storm, on the opposite end, was visibly feeling the heat. Even with the gigantic AC units humming at full blast, he was trapped under Miguel's bloody stares.
And with the help of the sun seeping through the large glass panes, his veins glistened with beads of sweat that dropped from his temples in uncontrollable, rhythmic intervals.
Storm tried to react, but he could feel his body tremble violently every time he attempted to speak.
The casual sweetness in Miguel's voice only served to make him more terrified; the lack of an overt threat made Miguel's real intentions impossible to pin down.
Storm found himself contemplating about lowering his guard. Perhaps there was no need to be all knotted up and scared when there was no visible sign of a weapon. He reached this conclusion just as his eyes shifted back to Miguel, who sat stoic and empty, anticipating a reply.
This emptiness made it even more difficult for Storm to read him. With the last pang of hope remaining, the man prayed he would come out of this office alive.
"Come, take a seat," Miguel ordered casually. He lazily kicked his legs up onto the polished table, crossing them at the ankles in a gesture of total ownership.
Storm noticed something then, a suspicious leniency. Miguel usually hated being kept unread, yet Storm had just snubbed his direct question. Instead of Miguel going rogue or snapping, the man looked completely unbothered.
And yes, that did get Miguel upset. But what was more rage-worthy than the betrayal already on his plate? On the brighter, darker side, Miguel was fully aware of the game.
He knew Storm was trying hard to read him, trying to perceive a reaction which Miguel consistently withheld. He wasn't going to give Storm the benefit of closure or the warning that he was going to die.
If anything, Miguel wanted to take the man unawares, make him feel at ease, and then boom. He wakes up in hell.
That was all Miguel wanted. Seeing Storm's face gradually soften from raw fear into confused relief, Miguel knew he was winning.
The last move was to make the prey feel safe.
"Seat!" Miguel ordered again. This time, the word carried an icy and sharper finality. He didn't spare a gaze at the man anymore; he simply focused on examining his neat, blunt nails.
Storm's firm, white-knuckled grip on the doorknob finally loosened as he began the long walk toward the desk. He had been planning on making a run for it, but Miguel's voice made the idea feel pointless.
Any suspicious action would make things worse, Storm coached himself. Just show him how sorry you are. Show him how deeply you regret your actions.
He dragged the seat backward, the legs letting out a loud, agonizing groan against the marble floor before he reduced his height into the soft leather. Sitting there like a high school kid in the principal's office, hunched and small.
And then Silence clogged the room once more, heavy with the divergent trains of thought racing through each man's mind, one clogged in fear and uncertain rush of violence the other waiting for the perfect time to strike.
To be continued...