🎬 PART 2: THE PLAY OF THE REAPERS
The space seemed to freeze into a block of ice. The guilty, ragged breathing upon the gold silk marital bed was abruptly cut short.
The luxurious gold silk sheets were disheveled, exposing two bodies trembling under the dim light of the nightlamp. The wife gasped, her eyes wide, pupils dilated in absolute terror. Her face was completely drained of color, her lips quivering, unable to utter a single word. Beside her, the broad-shouldered, blonde man sat frozen, completely paralyzed by the sudden appearance of the master of the house.
At the doorway, he stood like a statue carved from black stone. His premium custom-tailored suit hugged his broad shoulders, his black tie pristine and unwrinkled. In his hands, the magnificent bouquet of pink and white roses suddenly looked out of place, ridiculous to the point of grotesque.
"Please... Por favor..." the wife’s sob broke out, tearing through the thick, suffocating air. She collapsed onto her knees on the bed, tears streaming down and smudging her mascara. Her trembling hands reached out into the air, as if trying to push away the living nightmare before her, or begging for a mercy that would never exist.
But he didn't look at her. His bloodshot eyes, laced with crimson veins, locked dead onto the blonde man.
His chest heaved, his breathing heavy and rapid like a wild animal backed into a corner. His teeth clenched so hard they audibly ground together, his facial muscles twitching with a rage that surpassed the limits of human endurance. As it turned out, the scar on that man's shoulder belonged to the one he used to call his "brother in arms"—his best friend, the colleague who had helped him build his empire from scratch. For the past three years, while he was out there working himself to the bone to provide for his family, right here on this very bed, the two people he trusted most had turned him into a fool.
He took a step forward. The bouquet in his hand thudded onto the floor, the rose petals crushed beneath the tips of his polished leather shoes.
"Not another word," his voice came out deep and hollow, as cold as an echo from hell. "Of all the men in this world, why did it have to be you?"
The best friend hung his head, not daring to look his brother in the eye. The room fell so silent that one could almost hear the wife's tears hitting the silk pillows.
And then, a terrifying transformation took place on the husband’s face. The peak of his fury suddenly subsided, giving way to a smile.
But it was not a smile of forgiveness. It was a twisted, bitter, and maniacal grin. He smiled because he realized his entire life was a play directed too perfectly. He smiled at his own blind faith, smiled at the sleepless nights spent earning money, only to receive a fatal stab in the back from the two people he loved most. Amidst that agonizing, distorted smile, a single, warm tear slowly welled up in the corner of his eye, rolled down his trembling cheek, and fell.
He looked at his sobbing wife, then at his silent best friend, and whispered in a deathly calm tone:
May you like
"I don't know anymore. Me too... because I just lost my wife. And you two... just lost your last chance."
He didn't scream, nor did he rush in with his fists. He simply took a step back, slowly closing the bedroom door, locking the two traitors inside the darkness of their own guilt. Behind that door, no one knew what he would do next. All that was certain was that the gentle, faithful man of the past had died the exact moment that tear hit the floor.
