Noah moved swiftly, the heavy thud of Horace Wilkins’ limp body barely audible as it landed on the threadbare couch.
Noah stood above him, his gaze cold, and utterly devoid of mercy.
The room was silent, save for the faint whispers of wind outside. It was a fitting backdrop for what was about to happen.
Noah wasn’t doing this to make a spectacle, to send a message to everyone, or to set an example. No, this wasn’t about power plays or manipulation.
Noah was here for a simple reason: he had made a promise. He had told Horace Wilkins that if he ever stepped foot inside An’s Gourmet again, he would break his legs. And Noah was a man of his word.
"I don’t break my promises, at least not without a valid reason."
With a calmness that belied the intensity of the moment, Noah dragged a chair from the small dining table and placed it in front of the unconscious man. He sat down, his posture relaxed, almost casual, but his eyes remained focused—sharp as a blade.
The seconds ticked by, and Noah waited. He didn’t rush. He never did. There was a thrill in the waiting, in watching the scene unfold.
"Fate is such a wonderful thing, I always tried to understand why people are afraid of the future."
"It doesn’t make sense," he murmured, "How can you be afraid of something you can’t predict, nor have control of."
Horace stirred, his fingers twitching as he slowly regained consciousness. His eyelids fluttered, his head lolling to the side as he tried to shake off the haze of being knocked out.
But as his vision cleared, reality came crashing back with brutal force.
Horace jolted upright, his eyes wide with panic as he realized where he was—and more importantly, who was sitting in front of him.
Noah leaned back slightly, a small, smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good evening, Mr. Wilkins," he said, his tone dripping with mock enthusiasm.
"How was your sleep? Was it... bussing? Literally," he added, pinching his nose dramatically.
Horace blinked rapidly, his mind scrambling to process what was happening. His hands instinctively gripped the edges of the couch, his knuckles white with fear.
"You… what the hell are you doing in my apartment?" he stammered, his voice cracking.
Noah raised an eyebrow, his smile fading into something colder. "Do you remember the last time we spoke?" he asked, his tone mild, but there was a sharp edge to his words.
"At An’s Gourmet? I gave you a very simple instruction."
"Don’t show your face again in that restaurant or... I will break your little legs."
"I—" Horace began, but Noah cut him off.
"No," Noah interrupted, standing up slowly, his presence suddenly towering over the cowering man. "You thought it was an empty threat didn’t you,"
He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing as he leaned down slightly, his voice a low whisper. "You were wrong."
Horace flinched, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. "Please, I didn’t mean any harm! It was just a misunderstanding! I didn’t think—"
"Exactly," Noah said, cutting him off once more. "You didn’t think. And now you’re going to pay for that mistake. Next time try to think, use that nut in your head"
"I don’t make promises I’m not prepared to keep," he said coldly. "I told you what would happen if you went back to that restaurant, and now... here we are."
Horace’s heart pounded in his chest as Noah stepped back, his eyes scanning the room as though assessing every corner, every detail.
There was no rage, no outburst of violence. Just the cold, methodical calculation of a man in complete control.
The reality of the situation seemed to finally settle into Horace’s mind. His arrogance, his defiance, all of it had led to this moment. And there was no escaping it.
Noah moved closer, his presence looming over the terrified man. Horace tried to push himself further back into the couch, but there was nowhere left to go. He was trapped.
"I don’t want to do this because I enjoy it," Noah continued, his voice low, measured. "I’m doing this because I promised you." His eyes narrowed as he looked down at Horace. "And I don’t break my promises."
Horace’s trembling hands reached out, pleading, as if somehow, at the last second, he could talk his way out of this. "Please… please, Noah… I’ll do anything, just—"
But Noah’s expression remained unchanged, his face set in cold determination.
"No more excuses, Horace," he said, his voice hard as steel. "You had your chance."
With trembling hands, he reached for the nearest object—a vase sitting on a nearby table. He gripped it tightly, his breath shaky, and in one frantic motion, he hurled it at Noah with all the strength his body could muster.
But Noah had already seen it coming. He had seen the intention flicker in Horace’s eyes before the man even moved. With ease, Noah sidestepped the vase, watching it crash harmlessly into the wall behind him.
The shattering sound filled the room, but Noah’s focus remained on Horace, who was now breathing heavily, his body shaking in fear and frustration.
Noah smiled, but this time, it wasn’t the cool, detached smile from earlier. This one was darker, crueler, a smile that held no warmth. "You just made it worse, Horace," Noah said, his voice low, almost mocking. He crouched down, his face mere inches from Horace’s, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. "You should have just gone with the flow. Taken your punishment and moved on, you know?
Like you’re in court, and I’m the judge handing down a sentence."
Horace’s breathing quickened, terror flooding his veins as he realized the gravity of his mistake.
"But now…" Noah’s voice was soft but merciless, "Since you’ve shown no remorse, I’ll have to increase the punishment. Instead of just two legs…" he paused, letting the weight of his words sink in, "let’s make it two legs and a hand."
Horace’s eyes widened in horror, his voice coming out in a frantic whisper. "No, no, please… no," he begged, his body shaking with fear.