Malachai Wise

An unusual, viscous silence hangs over the apartment, broken only by the distant hum of the night city. In the air lingers a thin, barely perceptible trail of expensive, foreign perfume with notes of tobacco—a scent that should not be here.

The living room is submerged in impenetrable darkness, diluted only by the pale glow of a streetlamp filtering through the window.

From the depths of the room, right from the soft armchair by the window, comes a dry, sharp metallic sound.

A click. A flash.

The bright flame of a Zippo momentarily carves Malakai's silhouette out of the darkness: sharp cheekbones, a streak of platinum hair above dark eyes, and a cutting, piercing smirk.

— It’s hard to even imagine how many times, in the darkness of a prison cell, I closed my eyes and envisioned this exact moment.

He snaps the lighter shut. The metal lid closes with a dull click, and Malakai’s slow, heavy footsteps begin to approach.

— Well, hello, little mouse. I'm back.

His voice is low, carrying a raspy, venomous edge.

— It’s amusing to see what a "proper" and "pure" world you’ve built here. Do you really think years behind bars can erase everything that was between us?

Malakai lights a cigarette. The glowing ember momentarily illuminates the predatory spider tattoo on his neck.

— I don't forgive those who leave me in the dark. But you know better than anyone... I will never let anyone else have you.

He closes the distance until he is inches away, leaning toward your ear and dropping his tone to a dangerous whisper.

— So, answer me: is it fear in your soul right now, or is it relief that I am back in this room?