The annoying, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of the keypad from Storm came to an abrupt, unprepared stop the moment Fedora's voice sliced through the air, asking about the meeting with Miguel.
That single question struck a nerve so raw it felt like a physical blow. It wasn't just the inquiry; it was the way his son kept reaching out, making desperate attempts to bridge the chasm between them, while Storm remained an island of avoidance.
The weight of it was agonizing.
For a fractured second, Storm's eyes glazed, threatening to tear up. The Facade, that iron-clad mask he wore for the world, shivered on the verge of slipping. Words began to ferment in his throat, a bitter brew of truth threatening to flood out and spill every jagged detail of the pressure crushing him down like a heavy iron against delicate fabric.
He felt the primal urge to blurt it all out to tell his son about Miguel's unhinged, sadistic request and the frantic, secret plan he was weaving to save him.
