11

Paul left the company in a daze and immediately drove to the remote warehouse where he had arranged to meet Townsend.

His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles whitening from the strain. The threatening words of the mysterious man echoed relentlessly in his mind, filling him with panic and fear that nearly caused him to run red lights several times.

Inside the warehouse, the lighting was dim, surrounded by piles of abandoned goods that gave off a stale, decayed odor.

Townsend was already there, waiting. His brows were furrowed, his face full of impatience. When he saw Paul enter, he snapped irritably, "What's going on? You were vague on the phone. Why the rush to drag me out here? What kind of mess are we in now?"

Paul, panting heavily, approached Townsend. With a trembling voice, he recounted everything—the mysterious man, his sudden appearance, and the threats he'd made.

As Townsend listened, his expression grew darker. When Paul finished, he slammed his fist onto an old crate nearby, cursingCoffee Break cursing, "Damn it, just when you think it can't get worse, this guy comes out of nowhere and screws everything up!"

Paul looked at Townsend anxiously, his voice tinged with a sob. "Townsend, what do we do now? If we don't do what he says, he'll expose my identity. But if we do, we're done for anyway. Please, think of something!"

Townsend paced back and forth, his eyes glinting with ruthlessness. After a long silence, he said slowly, "Hmph, looks like we've got to shut this guy up for good. If he's gone, no one can threaten us."

Paul's eyes widened in horror. "Townsend, you mean… kill him? No way, that's insane! It's against the law. If we get caught, we're finished for good!"

Townsend stopped pacing, walked over to Paul, and patted his shoulder, lowering his voice. "Do you have any other choice right now? If we don't do this, we're done for immediately. If we handle it cleanly, no one will ever know. Besides, we've come too far to let some outsider ruin everything."

Paul bit his lip, his mind torn in a fierce struggle. On one hand, he knew murder was an unforgivable crime—one step across that line, and there'd be no turning back.

On the other, he was terrified of his impersonation being exposed, which would mean endless prison time and complete ruin.

After agonizing hesitation, he finally clenched his teeth, as if making a monumental decision. "Alright, Townsend, let's do it your way. But… we've got to plan this carefully. We can't afford any mistakes."

Seeing Paul's agreement, Townsend's lips curled into a cold, cruel smile. "Don't worry, I've already got a plan. You figure out a way to lure him out. Tell him you'll meet his demands and get him to some isolated spot. I'll have a few guys waiting there. The moment he shows up, we take him out, then find a place to ditch the body. No one will ever know."

Though Paul was still terrified, with things having gone this far, he had no choice but to go along.

He pulled out his phone and called the mysterious man, trying to keep his voice steady. "Hey, I've thought it over. I'll do what you want. Let's meet tonight. I'll get the documents and the money sorted. Where do you want to meet?"

The man on the other end seemed surprised that Paul had agreed so quickly. After a brief pause, he said, "Well, you're smarter than I thought. Alright, ten o'clock tonight at the abandoned factory in the suburbs. Come alone. If you try anything funny, you know what'll happen." With that, he hung up.

Paul relayed the meeting location to Townsend, who nodded and immediately started making calls to arrange his men and finalize the plan.

That night, the abandoned factory in the suburbs was shrouded in eerie silence. The darkness was oppressive, broken only by the occasional hoot of a night owl, adding to the sinister atmosphere.

The wind howled, rattling the factory's broken windows as if the forsaken place itself were issuing an ominous warning.

Paul arrived at the factory entrance alone, as agreed. He got out of the car, clutching a folder filled with fake documents, and walked toward the factory, pretending to be calm.

In truth, his legs felt like jelly, each step like walking on cotton. His heart was in his throat, terrified that the mysterious man would see through him—or that Townsend's men might botch the job.

In the shadows of the factory, Townsend and his crew were already in position, hidden in corners, their eyes locked on the direction Paul was approaching from. They gripped their weapons tightly, waiting for the mysterious man to show.

Soon enough, a black sedan rolled slowly into the factory grounds. When it stopped, the mysterious man stepped out.

He wore a black trench coat and a hat that obscured his face, exuding an air of danger and mystery.

"Kruk—or should I say, Paul? Got everything?" the man said as he walked toward Paul, his voice laced with smugness.

Paul, forcing himself to stay composed, held up the folder. "It's all here. Take a look. The money will come once you confirm it's good."

The man approached and reached for the folder. The moment his fingers touched it, Townsend shouted, "Now!" Instantly, the men hiding around them rushed out, charging at the man.

Caught off guard, the man froze for a split second before reacting, fighting back fiercely. But he was outnumbered. Within moments, he was knocked to the ground. Glaring up at them, he roared in fury, "You dare! You're digging your own graves! If anything happens to me, people will know it was you!"

Townsend stepped forward, crouched down, and looked at him coldly. "Hmph, once you're dead, no one will know. You should've minded your own business instead of threatening us." He waved a hand, signaling his men to finish it.

Paul watched the brutal scene unfold, his face drained of color, his body trembling uncontrollably. He wanted to look away but felt frozen, his eyes glued to the horror before him. Fear and regret churned within him—regret for ever stepping onto this path of no return. But now, it was too late.

The man struggled briefly before going still. Townsend stood up, glanced at the body, and said to Paul, "Don't just stand there. Help get the body to the car. We'll find a place to dump it. Move fast—don't leave any traces."

Paul moved mechanically, helping the others lift the body into the car. Then he followed Townsend's vehicle as they drove toward the deep mountains outside the city.

The atmosphere in the car was suffocating. Paul's mind kept replaying the gruesome scene, and he felt as though he'd plummeted into the depths of hell, with no hope of ever seeing light again.

In the mountains, they found a secluded ravine, tossed the body in, and covered it with dirt and leaves to hide the evidence.

When it was done, Townsend clapped Paul on the shoulder. "Alright, it's over. As long as we keep our mouths shut, no one will ever know. From now on, you keep playing Kruk perfectly—no more screw-ups, got it?"

Paul nodded numbly, his voice hoarse. "Got it, Townsend."

They drove back separately from the mountains.

Back at the villa, Paul felt like a walking corpse. Looking at the familiar yet alien rooms, his heart was a tangle of emotions.

Beth saw him return and greeted him as usual, her voice full of concern. "Honey, why are you back so late? You look awful—are you exhausted?"

Paul forced a weak smile. "Yeah, got held up with some company stuff. I'm beat. I'm going to rest."

With that, he headed straight to the bedroom, leaving Beth standing there, puzzled.

Later, Beth followed him into the bedroom. Exhausted and haunted by the murder, Paul wanted to ignore her and collapse into sleep. But Beth was persistent, striking provocative poses.

In an instant, Paul's fear melted away. He pinned Beth down, losing himself in a frenzy of passion.