The Cockroach

Chapter - 3

The man who is said to rule the underworld sat at the centre of the massive oak table, dressed in a flawlessly tailored black suit. 

Every move of his exuded power, from the way his crisp shirt clung to his toned body to the subtle flash of gold chains peeking through the undone top buttons to the heavy ring that rested on his index finger engraved with a shining snake, an emblem of his empire, his kingdom, his absolute rule.

His salt-and-pepper beard was impeccably groomed, adding a touch of refinement to his otherwise ruthless aura.

In his right hand, The Man swirled a half-empty glass of whisky, and in his left, a cigar burned between his fingers, as he lazily looked around with his calculating eyes that missed nothing.

The room was eerily silent. No one dared to breathe too loudly.

The Man barely turned his head as the men entered, their footsteps slow and hesitant. Their clothes were still damp from the rain, and their shoulders weighed down by the failure of not finding their prey. 

All of them slowly walked towards The Man before finally stopping at the edge of the oak table. Scar-face was in the front, his head slightly bowed in submission.

He knew the power of the man sitting before him. He knew what happened to those who disappointed him.

The Man took a slow sip from the glass before setting the glass down on the table with a soft clink. He took a deep breath as he leaned back in his chair, stretching out like a king waiting for some entertainment.

"So… where is my prize?" His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but there was an unmistakable sharpness beneath it, like the edge of a hidden blade. "Show me his head." His lips curled into a cruel smirk. "I have been dying to kick his dead head around like a fucking football. Did I ever tell you how much I like football?"

Scar-face hesitated. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Sir..." Scar-face started, but his voice faltered.

As soon as The Man saw Scar-face hesitation, the smirk on his face began to vanish. His grip on the cigarette tightened, and the already tense air in the room became suffocating.

"What the fuck are you doing just standing there?" His voice was still lazy, but the authority in his voice was sharp enough to slice through their skin, "I said… Put his fucking head my feet. Now."

His sudden outburst sent a jolt of fear among the men and except for Scar-face, everyone took a couple of steps back.

Their knees trembled slightly before one by one they finally sank to the floor. Their pride meant nothing in this room. Their life was at stake.

"S-Sorry, Sir…" His voice cracked. "We… We couldn't find him."

Silence.

A terrible, crushing silence.

The Man didn't move at first. The dim lights of the room hid his eyes, but every man in the room could feel his burning fury.

"You are telling me…" His voice was dangerously quiet now, each word laced with venom. "That after all the money I gave you, after all the weapons, the men, the time… after everything I handed you, you still let a half-dead bastard escape?"

No one answered.

No one could answer.

The air turned ice-cold.

"Did I get it right?" The Man asked again, this time straightening his back as he put his hands on the table.

Not able to take the pressure from him any longer, one of the men finally opened his mouth, stammering, "S… Sir, we…"

Bang!

A deafening gunshot rang out, shattering the silence.

The man who just opened his mouth to speak collapsed instantly on the ground, blood pouring onto the marble floor. 

"Ughhh" The man held his chest in agony, his body twitching for a moment, and then in no time, he went still.

The rest of the men stiffened, their throats tight with terror. No one dared to move. No one dared to even breathe too loudly.

After a pause, the silence was finally broken by The Man. He slowly exhaled a long stream of smoke, shaking his head in disappointment. "What a fucking waste of space," he muttered, staring down at the lifeless body. "Good thing I had the carpets removed. This useless thing would have ruined it."

Scar-face tried hard not to show it on his face, but his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He wanted to beg for his life, but he knew better than to plead too soon. He had to offer something… Anything to fix this.

"Sir, please," Scar-face started to speak, his voice desperate. "Give us one more chance. We will find him. I swear it. I won't show you my face unless I bring his head for you."

The Man leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming lazily against the table. He let the tension stretch, drawing it out, making them suffer in their fear. Then, he smirked.

"Do you know what they call me?" The man asked, looking at the ceiling of the room.

"Huh???" Scar-face looked a bit surprised when he heard The Man ask him such a question. He looked at the Man hoping he would elaborate further, but the Man didn't speak further.

"Yes, Sir… I know," Scar-face continued after a brief pause, "They call Sir, The Cock… The Cockroach."

"Yes… The Cockroach," The Man nodded, when he heard Scar-face, "Why do you think of all the names I chose this?"

"Sir, I am not bright enough to actually understand the vast…" Scar-face tried to speak, but was cut short by a wave of The Man's hand.

"Fine," His voice was casual, almost bored, "Get going and bring me his head."

Relief flooded over Scar-face's face… Well until the Man spoke again.

"But listen carefully," The Man continued, his smirk fading into something far darker. "If you fail again… Next time, it'll be all of your damn heads rolling on this floor."

Scar-face nodded frantically, "Yes, Sir. We won't fail this time. I swear it." And with that, Scar-face along with his men walked out of the room.

The room remained dead silent, except for the slow, rhythmic ticking of the antique clock on the far wall. Each second felt like a countdown to their deaths.

Outside, the storm had picked up again, rain striking against the skyscraper's glass windows and loud clattering echoing in the room. 

The Cockroach took another slow sip of his whisky, his mind already moving on. His focus shifted, his cold gaze settling on another man in the room. This one had remained seated silently on the table looking at everything that had happened for the last fifteen minutes without as much as a muscle moving on his face.

Stealing glances at the man, the Cockroach spoke.

"Why don't you go and check on that girl," he ordered, his voice cold and emotionless. "The one locked in the room."

The man in the shadows nodded once, waiting for further instructions.

"If she knows anything," the Cockroach continued, pausing to take another drag of his cigarette, "I want to hear it."

Then, his lips curled into a slow, sinister smirk.

"And if she doesn't…" He exhaled smoke, his words dripping with cruel amusement. "Make. Her. Talk."

The room remained silent, but the man got his orders loud and clear.

The man nodded one final time at The Cockroach before standing up and disappearing down the hallway with steady steps. 

Somewhere in the building, a girl sat in a locked room.

And her night was about to become a nightmare.

"I have never liked loose ends," The Cockroach took another slow drag of his cigar, "That bastard is out there, bleeding, weak, running like a rat ready to be caught. And yet these idiots let him slip through their fingers. What a bunch of useless pigs."

He exhaled sharply, flicking ash onto the floor. "Let that Scar-face know. I don't care if they have to turn this whole fucking city upside down. They better find him. Dead or alive."

A chorus of quiet "Yes, sir," filled the room. But the tension did not lessen.

He gave them a final glare before waving them off dismissively. "Get out of my sight, and don't come back until you have something worth telling me."

One by one, the men scurried out of the room like insects, their boots echoing against the floor. The Cockroach remained, swirling the remaining whiskey in his glass, his thoughts dark, calculating.

"Run as much as you can, brat. I will catch you soon," he murmured to himself, gazing out at the cityscape.

"And when I do…" The Cockroach shook his head, there was a bit of disappointment in his eyes.

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