"We don't know," the gang leader replied.
His voice lacked its usual gravelly edge, sounding almost innocent...as if he was a common criminal being forced to confess a crime he hadn't even considered committing yet.
The atmosphere in the room, which had been thick with murderous intent just moments ago, suddenly turned bizarre.
"Boss..."
The man with the mohawk reached out, discreetly pinching the leader's hand.
He then leaned in, his voice a frantic whisper that was nonetheless audible in the quiet apartment. He was urgently reminding his superior of the original purpose of their visit.
"Ahem!"
The broad-shouldered man cleared his throat loudly. His face, which had briefly softened in confusion, instantly contorted back into a mask of theatrical rage. His brows furrowed, and a vein throbbed at his temple.
"You bastard! How dare you use my name so lightly!" he roared, his voice booming against the cracked walls. He seemed more annoyed by the blow to his reputation than the actual situation.
"What..." Caesar muttered.
A single bead of sweat formed at his hairline, beginning a slow, cold journey down to his forehead. His mind was racing, a series of logical deductions flashing through his brain like a deck of cards being shuffled.
If they didn't break in, and they only just arrived... then the person who trashed this place is likely still nearby. Or worse, 'they' found me.
"Don't 'what' me! You know exactly what you did!" the mohawk guy shouted. He had been the calm one until now, but suddenly, he was roaring with the exaggerated energy of a side character in a low-budget play, desperate to prove his loyalty to his boss.
Caesar felt the tension in his chest tighten, but he quickly adjusted his expression. He forced a sheepish, almost apologetic laugh to bubble up in his throat. His posture relaxed, losing its cold, predatory edge as he adopted a polite, submissive tone.
"Haha... Boss John... I think there has been a slight misunderstanding," Caesar said, his voice smooth and placating.
He moved with slow, deliberate steps toward the center of the room. He reached out to the couch... and gripped its frame. With a grunt of effort, he shoved it back into its proper position.
He didn't stop there. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a handkerchief and began cleaning the dust and debris from the cushions, his movements meticulous and humble.
"Hmph."
John huffed, crossing his massive arms over his chest. He watched Caesar's performance with narrowed eyes, clearly not convinced by the sudden shift in attitude. However, the sight of Caesar acting like a servant seemed to soothe his ego, if only slightly.
Caesar straightened up and made a sweeping gesture toward the cleaned seat, his face a mask of perfect, polite hospitality.
"Please, Boss John. Why don't you sit down so we can discuss this... calmly?"
John shifted his weight, and the worn-out springs of the couch groaned under his massive frame.
He sat with a heavy thud, the sheer bulk of his body pressing deep into the cushions.
Across from him, Caesar took his seat. He moved with a careful, measured grace, sitting directly opposite the gang leader.
His back was straight, his hands resting naturally on his knees, but his mind was already calculating the distance between them and the quickest path to the door.
The atmosphere in the room was thick, like the air before a thunderstorm.
"Care to explain?" John began. His voice was a low rumble, carrying a heavy, threatening tone that vibrated through the small room.
He reached into his leather jacket, pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, and extracted one with slow, deliberate fingers.
"Why exactly did you use my name to gather information at the bar?"
He didn't light the cigarette yet. He simply held it, his eyes fixed on Caesar, waiting for a slip-up, a tremor in the voice, or a bead of sweat.
Caesar didn't blink. He allowed a look of mild surprise to wash over his face, followed quickly by a mask of deep, respectful admiration.
"Boss, I honestly thought you wouldn't care about something so trivial," Caesar said.
Then~
He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping into a tone of sincere flattery. "Is it really worth it for the Great John...the man who is destined to unify every single gang in this city...to spend his precious energy on something that isn't worth his time?"
As he spoke, Caesar watched John's expression closely. He was "pampering" the man's ego, layering the praise like a thick syrup.
John's eyes softened. A slow, proud smile began to spread across his broad face. He felt the warmth of the words, his chest swelling with self-importance. He was completely falling into the tra—
"You bastard!"
An angry roar shattered the moment. It came from the "mosquito" standing next to the couch. The mohawk subordinate had shouted with such sudden violence that John jumped, and nearly dropping his cigarette.
The roar acted like a bucket of cold water, waking John from the "drunken" state of his own vanity. He blinked, his smile vanishing as he realized he was being played.
He cleared his throat loudly, his face turning a shade of embarrassed red.
Tsk.
Caesar clicked his tongue inwardly. He felt a wave of genuine annoyance wash over him. His plan to distract the John had been working perfectly until this bloodsucking bastard opened his mouth.
"So?" John prompted, his tone dripping with a simmering, pissed-off energy. He flicked his lighter again, the small flame illuminating the growing impatience in his eyes.
"Sigh."
Caesar let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to drain the room of its artificial politeness. He leaned back into his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. The sheepish smile and the submissive posture vanished in an instant, replaced by a gaze that was cold, detached, and entirely indifferent.
He looked at John, and then at the "mosquito" beside him, as if he were evaluating two mildly interesting specimens under a microscope.
"Well," Caesar began, his voice flat. "I landed a deal worth a million... all to search for a certain something. That is exactly why I used your name. In fact, I was already planning on sending half of that sum to you."
He spoke the words with a tone laced with thick, unmistakable sarcasm. He wanted to see if their greed would outweigh their limited intelligence.
"Well, at least you know your place," the mosquito retorted. His tone was mocking, his chest puffing out as if he had already won the lottery.
But the subordinate didn't stop there. He narrowed his eyes, a greasy smugness spreading across his face.
"However, I don't think there is enough sincerity in your actions," he added, his voice oily.
'Is he actually asking for an apology?' Caesar asked himself inwardly. He felt a sudden, fleeting urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation.
"What exactly do you mean by that?" Caesar asked, a flicker of genuine confusion appearing in his eyes. He truly wanted to hear the man say it.
"An apology, of course!"
As if he had been waiting for Caesar to ask that very question, the mohawk guy retorted immediately. He wore a proud, triumphant smile, as if he had just checkmated a grandmaster.
Caesar didn't react. He simply sat there, looking the man up and down with a calm, bored expression. The silence in the room stretched out, becoming heavy and awkward once more.
"I am sorry to break this to you," Caesar finally said, letting out a small, sharp huff of air. "But... I don't do apologies."
The mohawk guy's smile faltered, but before he could explode in another roar, Caesar leaned forward, his eyes locking onto John's.
"Well, if you are planning on giving up on the money, I can certainly do that," Caesar added, his voice carrying a hint of a challenge.
The moment the words "giving up on the money" left Caesar's mouth, the atmosphere in the room shifted once again.
"No, no! It is fine, truly! This guy simply talks too much," John blurted out.
His voice had undergone a startling transformation, losing its aggressive rumble and becoming respectful, even vulnerable. It was the tone of a man who had suddenly seen a mountain of gold slipping through his fingers.
He looked at Caesar with wide, eager eyes, as though he were a priest gazing at a holy relic.
"Haha! I have always had a soft spot for talented individuals. Caesar, you are more than welcome to come under my wing!" John added, a proud, sweeping smile returning to his face as he conveniently forgot about the insult to his name.
'Tsk. Greedy bastard,' Caesar cursed inwardly.
The transition from a threatening gang leader to a fawning businessman was so pathetic it was almost comical.
Caesar maintained his indifferent mask, though his mind was already weaving the next layer of the web.
"I have a deal for you," Caesar stated simply.
John and the mohawk subordinate exchanged a look.
They went silent for a moment, their heads bowing slightly as if they were having second thoughts or weighing the risks of dealing with a man as unpredictable as Caesar.
Seeing their hesitation, Caesar leaned back further, his expression becoming one of pure boredom.
"Of course, I will be adding the other half of the money as payment for your services," he added casually.
The mention of the full million seemed to act like a lightning strike. John immediately straightened his posture, his expression becoming professional...or at least, his version of professional.
He tightened his grip on his knees, his eyes gleaming with a feverish intensity.
"Yes! We will do anything you ask of us!" John declared, his tone now one of solemn, provisional loyalty.
Caesar leaned forward, the shadows of the room playing across his features. For the first time since the two men had arrived, his voice lost its sarcasm and became cold and sharp.
"I need you to find the culprit who messed with my house," Caesar said, his gaze narrowing.
"And I need you to do it quickly."
The seriousness in his voice was like a physical weight, pressing down on the two thugs.
The negotiations concluded with a tense, lingering silence.
John had initially whined about the tight time frame Caesar demanded, his face scrunching in protest. However, the moment Caesar uttered a cold, "Nevermind then," and began to turn away, the gang leader's greed won out. He quickly accepted, his eyes flickering with the desperate glint of a man seeing a million-dollar payday nearly slip through his fingers.
Once the intruders finally departed, taking their heavy footsteps and loud voices with them, Caesar retreated to his bedroom.
He collapsed onto his bed, his muscles aching with a fatigue that went deeper than his bones. He lay there, staring vacantly at the ceiling of his room.
"Ah, I don't think this place is safe anymore," Caesar muttered to himself.
His voice was a mere whisper, swallowed by the shadows of the room. He felt as though the very walls were closing in, the air heavy with the lingering scent of the gang's cheap cigarettes and the copper tang of his own anxiety.
As he gazed upward, his eyes caught on something peculiar. Amidst the peeling paint and water stains, there was a small, dark blemish.
It was a hole. A tiny, perfectly circular void in the ceiling.
Caesar's exhausted mind struggled to process the sight. Was there always a hole in that place? Even in his state of near-collapse, the instincts of a cautious man began to stir.
He knew every inch of this apartment; he knew the cracks in the floorboards and the way the light hit the walls at dawn. This hole was a new addition—a foreign element in his sanctuary.
With a groan, Caesar forced his body to move. He stood up on the mattress, the springs creaking under his weight. Balancing himself, he leaned in closer, positioning his ear right against the dark opening in the ceiling.
A sudden, dark sense of humor bubbled up within him, perhaps a defense mechanism against the growing dread.
"Knock knock, who's there?" he whispered playfully.
He thought to himself that he must be truly going crazy to say such a thing to a hole in the ceil—.
Dush!
The sound was the last thing Caesar heard.
It was a muffled explosion of force, a violent impact that shattered the silence of the room. Before he could even register the pain, he was sent stumbling back.
His body lost all control, the world spinning into a chaotic blur of shadows and white plaster.
A sudden, warm gush of blood erupted from his head.
He had been shot. The predator had been waiting him in his own room.
The side of his face was shattered. The bone of his brow and the delicate structure of his eye socket were completely shattered by the projectile.
Blood began to rain down, staining the white bedsheets in a gruesome, spreading crimson map.
Caesar's body hit the mattress with a heavy, lifeless thud. He lay there, unmoving, as the air in the room grew cold.
The small hole he had been investigating suddenly exploded outward, the wood and plaster being torn apart by a tremendous force from above.
The ceiling groaned as a gap wide enough for a person was violently created.
A figure descended.
Swift and silent as a ghost, a young man dropped into the room, landing light-footed amidst the debris. He didn't waste a second.
He immediately raised his weapon, the dark barrel of his gun pointing directly at Caesar's lifeless, blood-soaked body.
The true intruder had arrived.
__________________________________________
Hello guys, Ashburn here.
I'm just a new, aspiring author trying to bring my imagination to life.
Hope you enjoy the story and support me.
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Thanks for reading! ☺️☺️.