The drivers stepped firmly on the brake pedals, jolting the car to an aggressive, bone-rattling stop.
Inside, Miguel, Navarro, and the two guards remained frozen in their respective positions.
It was a tableau of the stunned: jaws dropped, eyes wide in a cocktail of shock and total disbelief.
But the loudest element of this unreal moment was the silence that followed. It was a dead, heavy thing that settled in the cabin, so absolute that the men could hear the faint, frantic drumming of their own hearts.
It was like a competition to see whose pulse could race the fastest, and undoubtedly, the lead belonged to Miguel.
"Who the fuck!" Navarro spat, sitting up and gingerly brushing shards of glass from his curls, where they clung like jagged, glittering glue.
The two guards turned toward the back, their faces etched with a frantic mix of shock and concern.
"Sir, are you okay?" one muttered, his voice barely rising above a cautious whisper.
"Nigga, what does it look like? Can't you see him enjoying the look of the colorful confetti on him?"
Navarro hissed. His sarcasm was sharp enough to draw blood as his head snapped toward the wrecked rear window in a fit of irritation.
The two men bowed their heads in subtle apology, but none of it registered in Miguel's mind.
He remained stiff, a statue carved by molten volcanic rage, his entire body vibrating with a pure, unadulterated rage.
Whoever dared to do this was fucked as hell!!.
Miguel fumed inwardly, his gaze sweeping the interior of the car until it landed on the intruder: a heavy, brown brick lying unbothered, almost mocking him from beneath the seat.
No one said a word. They just watched the man they knew was about to dismantle an unfortunate soul, waiting with baited breath for the "go ahead" that never came.
So finally, God won, Miguel thought bitterly. This man 'God' always had a way of interrupting him and it has become so annoying and upsetting, especially when he had urgent blood to spill.
Well, not for long. Because He was about to brutally disfigure 'God's instrument.'
Looking at it on the bright side, this was a prime opportunity to vent. He needed to start his war somewhere eventually, and this unlucky bastard—who thought they could just bash the windows of a king—would be the first case study.
"Signal the others to wait," he finally broke the silence. His tone was a sub-zero chill that could have frozen a drink in seconds.
Without a moment's hesitation, the guard keyed the talkie. "At ease. Order from Sire," he announced.
Once the rear lights of the lead cars flashed in plain and unquestionable acknowledgment, Miguel let out a slow, sharp exhale. Before he reached for the beautifully striped hockey stick resting on the rear deck—a sleek, lethal accessory.
"In public?" Navarro who's gaze had never leaves him since this incident asked, his brows creasing with a knowing, wary look.
"You wanna bet?" Miguel shot back venomously.
He flung the door open, stepping out into the heat of the street.As the door swung shut, Navarro and the guards exchanged a heavy,knowing glance.
"Ho-ho-ho-ho, bastards!" Fedora cursed, his laughter loud, ridiculous, and mischievous. He shimmered with a vibrant satisfaction, thrilled that his aim hadn't failed him.
"I would have—DIED!—if I missed that," he added, dusting the crust of grit and sand from his palms.
Paying evil with evil was proving to be therapeutic. Fedora felt a sudden surge of strength envelope him, his fatigue replaced by a manic energy.
He felt ready for anything, to trekk till he migrated to another country even.
"Those riff-raffs!... they think they can ruin the morning I am already managing? Anyways..."He chuckled with sass and a sharp flick of his head, bending over to retrieve his thermal flask.
He was buried deep in the mumbling of his little victory, completely unaware that the luxury car's rear lights had beamed a hot, vengeful red.
His only focus was the mud-stained flask. How was he going to explain this to his dad?
"Will he even still want to eat from a flask like this?" Fedora wondered aloud. His face twitched with disgust as he tried his absolute best to wipe the filth from the glinting stainless steel.
Meanwhile, on the other end of the pavement, where rage had blended into a singular urge to ruin and destroy, was Miguel.
He slammed the car door shut with a brute force that echoed down the street—a clear signal to those inside not to interfere. It was a silent command, subtle with filled with toppings of finality: You interrupt, you take the victim's place.
As he progressed farther, he could hear the muffled laughter and teasing disbelief from Navarro.
Of course he could hear them echoing through the jagged hole where his window used to be, but Navarro wasn't the main course for now.
If anything, It only made him more upset, more ready to teach this stranger a wicked, permanent lesson. He swung the hockey stick stylishly between his fingers, technically warming it up for the performance it was about to give.
His grip tightened, his jaw muscles popping as he finally spotted the idiot—crouched there, looking innocent and harmless, wiping mud off a damn flask.
Miguel paused for a heartbeat, trying to catch the face of this mopstick who had the audacity.
His car was a limited edition, stupidly expensive; the repair would cost more than most people made in a year. It wasn't about the money—he had plenty of that—it was the disrespect.
Miguel stood between two fires: the fury that his mission against Storm was slipping through his fingers, and the raw madness at the damage to his property.
"Luckily, a scapegoat voluntarily presented itself," he sneered. He started toward the figure, his heels clicking against the concrete with calculated, predatory strides.
He was already contemplating where to land the first strike.
A few feet closer, Miguel's pacing slowed. His strides clicked to a halt, and weirdly, the fire of his anger died down into a cold, flickering confusion.
Something clicked inside of him.
He recognized that Unforgettable fragrance and hair.
He knew that silhouette from somewhere....Wait!!!
To be continued...