Absolution | +18

Chapter 8

Silas

Morning sunlight filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my apartment, casting sharp, clean lines across the polished concrete floor. The space is minimalistic, every object carefully chosen and perfectly placed. There's no room for clutter, not in my home, not in my mind.

I rise at exactly 6:00 a.m., the blare of my alarm as cold and efficient as everything else in my life. My movements are mechanical, devoid of any lingering sleepiness. I make my bed with military precision, the corners tucked sharp enough to cut.

The bathroom is next, where the sterile white tiles and chrome fixtures reflect the harsh fluorescent light. I follow my routine with unwavering discipline—shower, shave, brush my teeth. The steam from the shower dissipates quickly, leaving no trace of warmth or comfort.

In the kitchen, I prepare a simple breakfast: black coffee, one slice of whole-grain toast, no butter. The aroma of the coffee is sharp and bitter, matching the taste on my tongue. I sip it slowly, my eyes scanning the pristine surfaces around me. Not a single item is out of place, just the way I like it.

By 7:00 a.m., I'm dressed in my usual attire—black jeans, a plain black t-shirt, and my worn leather boots. The simplicity of it suits me; it's functional, no distractions. I check my watch and head out the door, locking it behind me with a sense of finality.

As I step into the cool morning air, there's no anticipation, no excitement for the day ahead. Just another day, another routine to follow, another opportunity to keep everything and everyone at a distance. Emotions are a luxury I can't afford, not with the ghosts that haunt my every step.

After leaving the apartment, I navigate the quiet streets of the early morning, the city still waking up. My boots thud against the pavement, a steady rhythm that echoes the predictability of my life. The cold air bites at my skin, but I welcome the numbness. It sharpens my focus, keeps me grounded.

I make my way to the parking garage where my motorcycle waits, a sleek, black machine that mirrors my own need for control and precision. I straddle the seat, the familiar weight of the leather settling against me as I twist the throttle. The engine roars to life, cutting through the stillness of the morning like a knife through flesh.

The ride is brief but necessary. It clears my head, the rush of wind stripping away any lingering thoughts. The streets blur past, the city's noise reduced to a distant hum. There's a strange comfort in the isolation of it all, the way the world fades into the background.

My destination isn't far—just a small hardware store tucked away in a quieter part of the city. It's not the kind of place you'd notice if you weren't looking for it, and that suits me fine. I don't need anyone's attention.

I park the bike in front of the store, the engine cutting off abruptly. The sudden silence is jarring, but I ignore it, stepping inside with a purpose. The bell above the door chimes, an annoyingly cheerful sound that grates on my nerves.

The store is dimly lit, aisles cramped with tools and supplies. It's the kind of place that smells of wood shavings and oil, the air thick with the scent of hard work and sweat. I make my way to the back, where the shelves are lined with small, neatly arranged boxes. I know exactly what I'm looking for—a specific type of screw that's nearly impossible to find anywhere else.

I spot it easily enough, but as I reach for the box, another hand brushes against mine. My reflexes are fast, jerking my hand back as if I've been burned. I glance to the side and see a man, about my age, with a look of surprise on his face.

"Sorry, man, didn't see you there," he says, his voice annoyingly casual, like we're old friends. He's dressed in a worn flannel shirt, jeans that are frayed at the cuffs. The kind of guy who'd probably stop to chat about the weather if given half a chance.