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In the dim light of the kitchen, Michael leaned against the marble island.
Evans stood opposite him, his phone already in hand, his fingers hovering over the dial pad.
"Give me the chequebook," Michael said, his voice a low, vibrating chord of authority. "And when I walk back in there, I want you to record everything. Capture the moment I hand them the paper. And call the police, silently."
Evans blinked, a look of pure bewilderment crossing his face. "Michael, what are you doing? You're going to give them a million dollars just to have them arrested? That's-"
"Evans," Michael interrupted, his eyes locking onto his manager's. "Do you want the kind of publicity that makes a man untouchable? Do you want the world to feel a collective, aching sympathy for the 'prodigy son'?"
Evans stammered, "I-well, as a manager, yes, but-"
"Yes or no, Evans. Don't waste my time."
"Yes," Evans breathed.
"Good. When I snap my fingers, stop the recording. Not a second before, and not a second after. Don't ask questions. Just watch."
Michael turned and began walking toward the living room.
Each step felt like a heavy beat of a drum.
"Oh, how I've waited for this," he thought.
In his old life, he was a victim of their cruelty. In this world, he wasn't just going to kick them out; he was going to erase them.
He entered the living room.
Keith and Madeline sat on the edge of the cushions, their eyes gleaming with the frantic, wet hunger of wolves smelling blood.
"Michael, no!" Janet cried out, reaching for his arm. "Don't give them anything! They-"
"Sit down, Mom. Sit down, dad," Michael said, his voice infused with a calm so absolute it acted like a command.
He looked at them, his gaze softening just enough to convey the truth. "Trust me. Sit tight, and whatever happens, do not get up."
Confused and shaken, but seeing the steel in his eyes, they complied.
Michael sat in the armchair directly opposite the vultures.
He pulled out a sleek, heavy fountain pen and opened the chequebook.
He began to write, his movements slow and deliberate.
Keith watched the tip of the pen, his breath hitching. In his mind, the money was already spent.
He saw himself in the neon-lit alleys of the city, surrounded by a harem of women, throwing money at their feet while he finally ditched the "ugly pig" Madeline.
He was already king of his own twisted world.
Michael finished.
He tore the leaf from the book with a sharp rip. He held the cheque up, displaying it between two fingers like a trophy.
Then, he crumpled it into a tight ball and flicked it at Keith's chest.
Keith's face reddened with a flash of fury at the disrespect, but greed won.
He lunged for the floor, snatching the paper. He smoothed it out with trembling, sweaty fingers.
The color drained from his face instantly, replaced by a mottled, sickly purple.
"What?" Madeline shrieked, snatching it from his hands. "What is it? Did he miss a zero?"
She looked at the paper.
In bold, elegant calligraphy, Michael had written three words: SUCK MY DICK.
Madeline let out a guttural, high-pitched scream of rage and tore the paper into a dozen pieces, throwing them into the air.
Keith roared, lunging to his feet. He stomped toward Michael, his fists balled.
Terry started to rise, his face dark with protective fury, but Michael held up a hand.
"Please, dad," he said in a whisper that carried more weight than a shout.
Keith reached Michael.
Michael deliberately put out his hand in front of his mother, who was right beside him. Keith looked at Janet for a second and then concentrated on Michael.
"You arrogant little piece of shit!" Keith screamed, spittle flying.
He wound back and delivered a massive, haymaker punch directly to Michael's jaw.
The sound of the impact echoed-a dull, sickening thud.
Keith expected Michael's head to snap back.
He expected him to howl in pain.
But Michael didn't move.
He didn't even blink.
He stayed perfectly still, staring into Keith's eyes with a look of such concentrated, cold malice that Keith felt his heart skip a beat.
It was like hitting a statue made of cold iron.
Michael snapped his fingers.The sound was like a gunshot.
Evans immediately cut the video.
Terry tried to moved to intervene, but Michael was faster.
With the calculated precision of a professional, Michael stepped into Keith's space.
He delivered a brutal, short-range liver shot with every ounce of his body's strength.
It left Keith in a pathetic, wheezing sob.
He collapsed to the floor, squirming and clutching his side, his face turning a terrifying shade of blue-grey.
"You cunt!!" Madeline shrieked, falling to her knees beside her husband. "You've killed him! You're all going to hell you bloody motherfucker! You n**** loving bastards! I'll burn this house down with you in it!"
"Shut up," Michael said.
The words weren't loud, but they cut Madeline's voice off like a blade.
In the distance, the low, mournful wail of police sirens began to rise, growing louder with every passing second.
Michael looked down at the two of them, a devilish, beautiful smile curling his lips.
"You think you can leave?" Michael asked, leaning down. "No. You're in my domain now. I am going to sue you for everything you've ever touched. I will take every cent from your pockets. I will take your house, your car, the very clothes on your backs. You will never know a moment of comfort again. By the time my lawyers are done, you'll be praying for death."
He leaned closer to Keith, who was still gasping for air on the rug.
"Yes," Michael whispered. "You guys are going to die in the gutter."
The front door burst open. Police officers flooded the room.
"Help us!" Madeline screamed, pointing at Michael. "He attacked us! He's a maniac!"
But the police ignored her.
Evans was already there, showing them the footage-the part where Keith looked at Janet with bloodlust but Michael put out his hand and the part where Keith punched a world-renowned, "defenseless" writer, while the writer stood there, a "victim" protecting his elderly parents.
Janet and Terry rushed to Michael, checking his face with frantic concern.
Terry was already grabbing his keys to drive him to the hospital.
"Thank you, God, for this body," Michael thought, feeling the faint, cooling throb on his jaw. To him, it felt like a mosquito bite.
"I'm fine, Mom. I'm fine, dad," he calmed them, his voice returning to its gentle, son-like tone.
After the police dragged the screaming, pleading Wuntchs out of the house, Michael signaled to Evans.
They stepped outside into the cool Florida night.
Michael pulled a silver case from his pocket, took out a cigar, and lit it.
The orange tip glowed in the darkness. He offered one to Evans, who shook his head, still looking a bit shell-shocked.
"Sell the news, Evans," Michael said, exhaling a plume of blue smoke. "Contact the major outlets. Tell them exactly what I told the police. I want the story to be: 'Hero Author Protects Parents from Violent, Greedy Relatives.' Frame it so it looks like Keith was lunging for my mother, and I stepped in to take the blow."
"I have the footage," Evans said, a slow, predatory grin forming on his face as he realized the genius of the move. "The angle makes it look exactly like that."
"Good," Michael said, his eyes turning toward the street where the police cars were disappearing.
"Release their names. Make sure their faces are on every digital billboard. And tell my lawyers to start sharpening their knives. I want them bled dry."