The man spoke in the same calm, clinically cold tone, without irritation, without threat, simply stating a fact:
"I didn't ask whether you believe or not."
The next movement was swift and flawless, honed like a knife that already knows exactly where to enter.
He shoved the door with his shoulder, not hard, but precisely, with the kind of force that wastes no energy.
The door flew open with a crack of old wood and the metallic snap of the chain Ethan hadn't even had time to unhook.
Ethan was thrown backward.
He didn't have time to brace himself or hold on; his body flew like a rag doll.
His back slammed into the edge of the sofa—hard, painful air punched out of his lungs in one short gasp.
His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the floor, not fell, but sank: first onto his knees, then onto his palms.
The floor was cold.
The old linoleum stuck to his hands, darkened by time. Ethan tried to rise instinctively, reflexively, like an animal sensing danger.
His arms trembled, muscles tensed, but his body refused to obey, too many days without food, without sleep, without meaning.
And the man was already inside.
One step, and the door slammed shut behind him on its own, heavy, final.
The cowboy hat shifted slightly from the motion, but he didn't bother straightening it.
The sunglasses still hid his eyes, black mirrors reflecting only Ethan's face.
In one stride he was standing over Ethan; the movement was too fast for such a large frame, too precise, as though he had rehearsed this moment in his mind long ago.
The heavy cowboy boot with metal toe caps, came down squarely on Ethan's chest, pinning him to the floor.
The weight was inhuman—not mere pressure, but the sensation of a concrete slab lying across his ribs.
Air was forced out of his lungs in one instant exhale.
Ethan gasped—short, ragged—trying to inhale, but every breath now passed through a narrow slit, through pain that spread across his chest in hot waves.
"What… the hell… are you doing…?" he rasped, voice hoarse, torn, barely forcing its way past his constricted throat.
The man didn't even blink.
His shadow fell across the floor, covering half the room, huge, motionless, like the shadow of an ancient oak.
On the dark lenses of his glasses the television screen reflected: the smiling face of the vampire politician still mouthing something about "harmony" and "compensation," lips moving silently like in a silent film.
The screen light made the man's face even more stone-like; blue glints slid across his cheekbones, his chin, but never reached his eyes.
"Saving your life," he said calmly, almost matter-of-factly.
"You can think of it as the beginning of a friendship."
He slowly removed his hat in one smooth motion, as though giving Ethan time to accept the inevitability.
Beneath the hat: short-cropped, graying hair; a forehead etched with deep lines, not from age, but from constant squinting into sun or down a sight.
He placed the hat on the coffee table—carefully, almost ceremonially.
"Call me… Flash Royale."
His voice was low, even, without the slightest hint of humor.
Then he lifted his boot from Ethan's chest, slowly, unhurriedly, like removing weight from a shelf.
Air rushed into Ethan's lungs in one sharp, painful, convulsive breath. He coughed, gulping air, feeling his ribs ache with every movement.
Flash stepped back exactly far enough to give space, but not far enough for Ethan to feel safe.
He still loomed above him, tall, immovable, like a post driven into the ground.
"Listen carefully," he continued in the same tone that brooked no argument.
"Either you get up… or you stay lying here until they come for you."
Ethan held his breath.
The words felt alien, too blunt, too harsh for this room that still smelled of her shampoo and his insomnia.
But the tone… the tone was terrifyingly real. Like a diagnosis delivered by a doctor without emotion, because emotion would change nothing.
"What do you mean?" Ethan asked hoarsely, pushing himself up on his elbows.
His voice trembled, but the steel that had been born in the courtroom was already surfacing.
Flash dropped to one knee, smooth, almost graceful for such a large man.
Now he leaned closer, so close Ethan caught the faint scent of tobacco and metal, like a weapon that hadn't been cleaned in years.
The silence between them became almost physical, dense, pressing, like the air before a storm.
"You really think that after the trial they'll just leave you alone?" Flash asked quietly, almost a whisper, yet each word landed like a stone in water.
"The kid vampire killed your fiancée. And now you're an inconvenient noise.
You're the one who shouted in the courtroom. The one who tore up their paper. The one who refused the compensation."
He tapped Ethan on the chest with one finger, not hard, but precise, right over the heart.
The tap was short, like the click of a rifle bolt.
"Noises… usually get silenced."
Ethan swallowed.
His throat was dry as sand. He tried to push Flash's hand away, his palm landed on the man's wrist, but he didn't have the strength to move it even a centimeter.
His fingers simply slid across the rough fabric of the coat and fell limp.
"I… don't want… help…" he forced out.
"Get out…"
His voice cracked on the last word. He turned his head away, staring toward the television where the politician still smiled, at the black curtains, at the empty corner where her framed photo used to stand.
Flash didn't move.
He simply watched, through the dark lenses, through the silence, through everything Ethan tried to hide inside.
"You're already dead, kid," he said finally, almost gently.
"You just don't know it yet. They'll give you a couple of days, maybe a week.
Then they'll come and quietly clean everything up. No one will notice."
He rose slowly, straightening like a mechanism that hadn't been used in years.
He extended a hand, not to help, but palm up, as though offering something Ethan wasn't yet ready to take.
"Last chance, Ethan Hitcher. Stand up or lie here and wait for your turn."
"Your choice."
Only the television murmured something about "peaceful coexistence."
And somewhere deep in the apartment a faucet dripped quietly from a not-quite-closed tap, monotonous, indifferent, like a countdown of remaining seconds.
Flash rolled his eyes, a light, almost theatrical motion, but laced with irritation he didn't even try to hide.
"You child…"
His voice stayed even, but the last word carried a note of weary pity, like someone who had seen too many people refuse the life preserver because they didn't believe they were drowning.
Ethan, breathing hard, finally raised his hand.
His fingers trembled; his palm was slick with sweat and blood from cracked knuckles.
The movement was weak, almost symboliс, he simply pushed against Flash's chest, where beneath the dusty coat solid muscle felt like a board.
The shove was pitiful, but stubborn the last act of resistance from a man who had nothing left to lose.
Flash rocked back, not from the force of the blow, but playing along with a soft rustle of his coat that rippled like the wings of an old crow.
He stepped back half a pace, giving Ethan room, not because he was afraid, but because he decided to see what would happen next.
Ethan stood.
Barely holding himself upright, knees buckling. He straightened slowly, clutching at air, at the wall, at his own anger.
His eyes were red, inflamed from sleepless nights and unshed tears, but for the first time in a long while a real, heavy rage burned in them, not a flash, but a deep, slow fire that could no longer be extinguished.
"Get out," he rasped.