Waiting for the right time

Pain was an old friend now. Seagull sat slumped in the wooden chair, his hands bound behind his back with thick, cutting rope. His head throbbed, and the taste of iron filled his mouth where his lip had split open. One eye was swollen shut, the other barely open enough to see the dim light that flickered overhead. The cold, damp air clung to his skin, carrying the stench of gasoline and mildew. He had no idea how long he had been here—hours? Days? Time bled together in the darkness. But he was still breathing, and as long as he drew breath, he would fight.

They had tried to break him. Their fists had done their worst, and yet they had not taken what they wanted from him. He had learned long ago that pain was temporary, but will—that was unbreakable. The more they hurt him, the more stubborn he became. He could endure. He would endure.

A door creaked open. Heavy boots scraped against the concrete floor, followed by a gruff chuckle. Seagull didn't look up. He didn't need to. He knew their voices now—had memorized them like one memorizes the sound of approaching thunder before a storm.

"You sure he's still alive?" one of them asked, the sneering one. Grady.

A pause. Then, a deep, deliberate sigh. "Yeah, he's alive," came the voice of the other. Taller, quieter. Morris.

Seagull kept still, listening as Grady paced the room.

"I still don't see why we gotta wait," Grady muttered. "We got him. Why not end it now?"

"Because the boss says so," Morris replied evenly. "We wait for the call."

Grady scoffed. "Yeah? And when's that coming? He said 'soon' last night. It's been hours. What if we missed it?"

Morris exhaled through his nose. "We didn't miss it. And if we did, we'd be dead already."

That shut Grady up for a second, but Seagull could hear his agitation in the way his boots scuffed against the floor. Grady wasn't the type to sit still. He liked to act, to break things, to hurt. A loose cannon, reckless and impatient. And reckless men made mistakes.

Seagull let his good eye flutter open just enough to watch them. Morris stood near the door, arms crossed, his broad frame casting long shadows against the weak light. He was steady, controlled, the kind of man who followed orders to the letter. Grady, on the other hand, was the problem. He leaned against a rusted table, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against the metal surface. His knee bounced, his jaw twitched. The silence was making him restless.

"I don't like it," Grady muttered. "Feels off."

"You don't have to like it," Morris said. "You just have to wait."

Grady's tapping stopped. He turned to Morris with narrowed eyes. "What if I don't wanna wait? What if I think we should do this now and be done with it?"

Morris's gaze remained steady. "Then I put you down myself."

Tension snapped through the air like a live wire. For a moment, neither man moved. Then, Grady smirked, but it was an ugly thing, full of malice.

"You're all about orders, huh? Following 'em, never questioning 'em?" Grady said, voice dripping with mockery. "What if I told you the boss isn't calling? What if I told you he's already made his move, and we're just sitting here like idiots?"

Morris's expression didn't change, but Seagull saw the way his fingers curled slightly. A flicker of doubt, just for a second.

"Bullshit," Morris said. But there was an edge to his voice now.

Grady laughed, low and knowing. "You sure? 'Cause I know something you don't."

Seagull's breath stilled. This was it. Grady was about to slip up. His need to feel powerful, to have control, was making him reckless.

Morris straightened. "Say what you mean, Grady."

Grady glanced at Seagull, a cruel glint in his eyes. "Let's just say… the boss isn't the only one with a plan."

Morris's entire body tensed. "You're playing a dangerous game."

A sharp buzzing sound filled the room. Both men froze. Morris reached into his pocket, pulled out a phone, and checked the screen. His eyes darkened.

"It's him," Morris said, voice low.

Grady straightened, the cockiness vanishing in an instant. He wiped his palms on his jeans, suddenly looking less sure of himself. "Well? Answer it."

Morris hesitated for half a second before pressing the phone to his ear. "Yeah."

Silence. Then, a voice on the other end, too faint for Seagull to hear. But whatever was being said, it made Morris's face go pale.

"Yes, sir," Morris said. A pause. His jaw clenched. "Understood."

He ended the call and pocketed the phone. Then, slowly, he turned to Grady. The silence stretched long enough for the tension to become unbearable.

"What did he say?" Grady asked, voice quieter than before.

Morris stared at him for a moment, then stepped forward. "He said we move. Now."

Grady grinned, but it was forced. "Yeah? See? Told you we—"

A gunshot rang out. The sound was deafening in the confined space. Grady's body jerked before crumpling to the ground, a dark stain spreading across his chest. His mouth opened in shock, but no words came out. He twitched once. Then, he was still.

Morris exhaled slowly, lowering his gun. Then, without looking at Seagull, he pulled out his phone again, pressed a number, and waited. When the call connected, he spoke in a voice as cold as the concrete walls around them.

"It's done. On to the next step."

Then, he turned toward Seagull.

And smiled.