Chapter 204: Your Chance Is Gone
"Do I need to remind you?"
Andrew sipped his coffee with measured calm.
"Ronnie. Vertex Innovations Group. Mr. Perez."
Papers rustled on the other end. It was Terry scrambling for an excuse. "Mr. Smith, I can explain—"
Andrew cut him off. The coffee cup shattered between his fingers, shards piercing his palm. Blood welled up, dripping onto the floor and mingling with the spilled coffee.
He studied his bleeding hand, voice dropping to a silken whisper—soft as a devil's lullaby. "Two hours. My office. One second late, and you know what happens."
After hanging up, Andrew rose and walked to the window.
Sunlight streamed in, but couldn't penetrate the darkness in his eyes.
He dialed another number, his voice cold and precise. "Pull Terry's movements from the last six months. Financial transactions, call logs, everything."
"Yes, Mr. Smith."
Meanwhile, Sophia sat in her office at Vertex Innovations Group, fingertips drumming against the desk.
She stared at Terry's file on her screen, brow furrowed.
Something didn't add up.
Ronnie's appearance. Terry's involvement. Accusations pointing back to John. Someone was playing a bigger game.
In the lounge, heavy piano notes filled the air—Funeral March.
The bass pounded like a death knell, rising to a crescendo that seemed to both honor the dead and celebrate the killer's frenzy.
Hearing it, Terry's heart climbed into his throat. When he pushed through the door, sweat already beaded his forehead.
He approached the man in the immaculate black suit seated at the piano, bowing respectfully. "Mr. Smith."
Andrew's back remained turned, fingers never leaving the keys. "Who is it."
Terry swallowed hard, sweat rolling down his face and hitting the floor with a soft plop. "Mr. Smith, I don't understand what you—"
The music stopped.
Andrew's hands hovered above the keys, suspended. After a pause, he resumed playing. He said nothing, but each note struck Terry's nerves like a hammer.
Sweat soaked through Terry's collar, puddling on the carpet. "Mr. Smith, I genuinely had no idea—"
A jarring, discordant chord shattered the melody—Andrew's patience snapping. He turned, regarding Terry with the detached interest one might give an ant before crushing it.
"You should understand—confessing voluntarily versus me extracting the truth... your outcomes differ significantly." Andrew removed the amber prayer beads from the piano's music stand and slipped them onto his wrist, offering one final chance.
"Mr. Andrew Smith, please—just this once! It was all Mr. John Smith's orders! You know how reckless he is—I couldn't refuse!"
Detecting the faint copper scent in the air, Andrew's eyebrow lifted with mild interest. "Go on. Tell me exactly what he ordered."
Terry grasped at the lifeline. "You know Mr. John Smith never liked Sophia. He told me to find a way to destroy her reputation. Said if I could pull it off, he'd leave my family alone."
Silence stretched out. Terry studied Andrew's expression carefully—after ten years, he still couldn't read the man.
"Creative story." Andrew's gentle tone carried something terrifying, squeezing Terry's heart. "Pity I despise lies."
Two men burst through the door, seizing Terry and slamming his hands down onto the piano's exposed steel strings.
"Your chance is gone."
As Andrew's fingers danced across the keys, agonized cries rose alongside twisted, ear-splitting notes.
Terry's screams filled the lounge as the steel strings carved into his flesh, blood spattering with each vibration.
The metallic scent saturated the air. Blood droplets flew with the strings' movement, seeming to ignite something Andrew had kept buried for years.
He played with evident pleasure, savoring the distorted melody.
When the piece ended, Terry's hands were mangled ruins. Exhaustion silenced his screams—only shallow breathing proved he lived.
"Take him away." Andrew extracted a handkerchief from his jacket, meticulously wiping blood from the amber beads.
His movements remained elegant and precise. Blood spattered his face, yet he seemed oblivious—a perfectly refined demon.
Victor entered, footsteps silent on the carpet. He kept his gaze lowered, avoiding Andrew's terrifying appearance.
"Mr. Smith, Terry's account shows monthly deposits from overseas. The source accounts change frequently—we can't trace the origin yet."
Andrew slid the cleaned beads back onto his wrist, fingers caressing the cool, lustrous surface with evident satisfaction.
After a long moment, he rose and casually tossed the bloodied handkerchief onto the piano keys. "Clean this up. And notify my idiot brother."
Victor froze. "Mr. Smith, you mean... Mr. John Smith?"
Andrew's emotionless glance cut through him. "Who else?"
Victor bowed immediately. "Understood."
Outside the international terminal's glass walls, dusk descended and neon awakened.
Michael leaned against the black Maybach, scanning the emerging crowds.
He'd arrived twenty minutes early—Sophia, trapped in a board meeting, had asked him to pick up their guest.
"Michael?"
A deep voice came from behind. Michael turned to face warm eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses.
Nate wore a light gray trench coat, medical bag slung over one shoulder, pulling a carry-on with the other hand.
He looked thinner than seven years ago, exhaustion from the long flight evident around his eyes.
"Long time." Michael reached for the luggage, bodhi seed bracelet sliding back to his wrist. "Flight actually on time—miracles happen."
"Typhoon changed course." Nate smiled, adjusting his medical bag and instinctively glancing through the car window. "She didn't come?"
"Meeting."
The car's diffuser released cold notes of roasted cedarwood—like standing in a misty morning forest.
Nate remembered—Sophia's signature scent. Clean, controlled, emotionless.
"How is she?" He watched the flowing lights outside, voice barely above a whisper.