Michael walked back to his building, carrying Raniel's unconscious body over his left shoulder. He climbed the stairs with the same ease as always, entered his apartment, and took his phone out of his pocket to check the time: the digital clock displayed exactly 5:00 PM. He knew that Josiane would leave the department at 5:30 PM, which gave him a precise window of time to organize his next steps.
He crossed the hallway and laid Raniel down on the bedroom bed, knowing that, due to the point where he had been struck on the clavicle and the nervous system, the man would take hours to regain consciousness. Before leaving, Michael looked at himself in the wardrobe door mirror and noticed tiny shards of glass from the window still embedded in the folds of his blazer. He removed the garment, put on a clean dark-colored jacket, and changed clothes with quick and calculated movements. Without wasting a second, he locked the apartment door and went back out onto the street.
Meanwhile, at Headquarters, Josiane remained seated at her desk in the evidence department, tapping her fingers on the wooden surface while staring at the clock on the wall. The anticipation of the money and her new life made the minutes feel longer, but she maintained her professional demeanor until the hands finally reached 5:30 PM.
With a restrained smile, she turned off the monitor, gathered her belongings, and rose from her chair. She walked through the department's corridors, passed through the main entrance of the HQ, and began the journey back to her residence.
After a few minutes of brisk walking, Josiane arrived at 412 Elmwood Street. She opened the front door and entered the house. The house was completely dark and silent, exactly as she had left it when she went out that morning.
Before she could take two steps toward the light switch, a calm and measured voice emerged from the darkness:
– Hello, Josiane.
A click echoed through the room, and the central light came on, revealing Michael sitting comfortably in an armchair in the corner of the room.
Josiane did not panic or show any surprise upon seeing the stranger. Driven by pure instinct for protection and survival, she reacted with extreme speed: she took a step to the side, moved toward the small side table next to the sofa, pulled open the drawer, and drew a .38 caliber revolver that she kept there.
With the weapon in her hand and firmly aimed at Michael's chest, she kept her breathing controlled and questioned him firmly:
– What are you doing in my house? Wasn't it Lydianne I had a deal with?
Michael remained motionless in the armchair, watching the barrel of the gun without blinking.
– You don't seem surprised – he commented, maintaining his linear tone of voice.
– I don't need to be surprised to know how to defend myself – Josiane retorted, adjusting her finger over the trigger. – What do you want here?
– I'm here to kill you – Michael replied, directly and without beating around the bush.
Josiane let out a sarcastic and disbelieving laugh, without lowering her guard.
– Kill me? You talk as if you have any choice. I'm the one holding the gun.
– Before your brain sends the signal to your finger to pull the trigger, you will already be dead – Michael declared, with a cold certainty that made the air in the room seem denser.
– You really think you're faster than a bullet? – she challenged, narrowing her eyes.
Michael held her gaze in silence for a few seconds before answering:
– Yes. I am. But I'm only here to talk.
He calmly extended his hand, holding a cup of tea he had prepared before his arrival, and gently placed it on the table beside him.
The sound of the porcelain touching the wood sealed the fate of that conversation.
A short while later, when the silence of the night had already settled over the streets, Michael crossed the door of his apartment once again. Without haste, he took his phone out of his pocket as he walked toward the kitchen. He opened the messaging app, searched for Lydianne's contact, and typed a short sentence:
"Everything is resolved."
He sent the text, placed the device on the counter, and observed the dimly lit apartment, ready to deal with the next piece on his chessboard.