The silence that followed Voolper's fall weighed over the room, broken only by the static hum of the television still on and the distant hiss of traffic in the street. The man's body remained sprawled on the cold ceramic floor, heavy and irregular breaths betraying a deep unconsciousness induced by the excess of alcohol and the blow.
Raniel pushed himself off the doorframe. There was no hurry in his steps. He walked to the center of the room, circled Voolper's body without giving him any attention, and stopped beside the sofa. His eyes, always restless and loaded with habitual irony, gradually lost their joking tone as they observed Michael's figure.
Michael remained standing, a few centimeters from the fallen man. The faint light of the lamp cut his silhouette with an almost unnatural rigidity. There was no triumph in his gaze, no adrenaline or contempt. Only the complete absence of any shock.
Raniel drew in a slow breath, crossing his arms over his chest. The atmosphere between the two thickened, stripped of the jokes that usually filled the space.
— What is this, Michael? — Raniel asked, his voice coming out lower than usual, devoid of sarcasm.
Michael did not move his head.
— The target is incapacitated — he replied, flatly.
— I'm not talking about the drunk on the floor — Raniel took a step forward, fixing his gaze on his companion's face. — I'm talking about you. About this whole thing. About walking around cleaning up other people's mess, hunting names on lists, as if there were some hidden order to be restored at the end of the day.
Michael remained silent.
— Tell me one thing — Raniel continued, genuine curiosity finally emerging from his defensive posture. — Do you feel anything when you end someone's life? An impulse? A glimpse of pleasure, of relief, or even of anger? What goes on in there when someone's light goes out in front of you?
The room seemed to freeze for long seconds. The sound of the wind outside beating against the scratched window was the only noise filling the apartment. Michael held his stillness, his gaze lost in the space between the floor and the opposite wall, as if he were scouring the deepest and darkest corridors of his own consciousness in search of something that no longer existed.
When he finally spoke, his voice came soft, but loaded with absolute weight:
— Nothing.
Raniel tilted his head slightly, furrowing his brow.
— Nothing?
— There is no anger, no pleasure — Michael said, each word paused, stripped of artifice. — There is no relief. I observe the end the same way I observe the beginning.
— Then why do you do it? — Raniel insisted, taking another step, facing him head-on. — What's the point of carrying this burden if you get nothing out of it? Why keep walking through the darkness if you don't even know what you're looking for?
Michael blinked slowly. For the first time in a long time, there was an imperceptible crack in his posture — not a weakness, but the realization of an inner void too vast to be filled by simple explanations.
— Because I don't know — Michael replied, the candor of his speech echoing almost like a confession. — It's the only thing left when everything else is removed. There is no greater reason. Only continuity.
Raniel stared at Michael for a prolonged time. The complexity of that answer seemed to echo in the room, disarming any attempt at mockery. He let out a heavy sigh, looked away to the floor, and walked to the window, observing the street for a brief moment before turning again.
— You're a tragic enigma, you know? — Raniel said, his tone of voice shifting subtly, seeking new ground. — But you're not that immune to everything.
Michael did not answer.
— And that woman in the square? — Raniel asked, his tone lowering, becoming more intimate. — Foxy. What does she mean to you?
— She's a work colleague — Michael replied at once, without changing his tone.
Raniel let out a short laugh, but with no trace of mockery. It was a laugh from someone who sees through the fog the other tries to build.
— Lie — Raniel said, taking slow steps until he was two meters from Michael. — A work colleague doesn't make you hesitate in your answer. Doesn't make you spend three seconds calculating what to say so you don't show anything. She represents something you desperately try to smother in there. You like her, Michael. In a way you can't even admit to yourself.
— She's just a link to the past — Michael retorted, keeping his voice firm, though his gaze fixed with more intensity on Raniel. — Nothing beyond that.
Raniel stopped. His expression became incredibly serious, his piercing gaze cutting through the dimness of the room. He stared Michael in the eyes, holding that overwhelming presence without stepping back a single millimeter, and pronounced each word with solemn gravity:
— As long as you keep lying to yourself about what you feel, the darkness won't be your tool, Michael... it will be your cell. And the worst prison is the one where you yourself hold the key and pretend the door is locked from the outside.
The impact of those words seemed to echo in the space, leaving a trail of dense and unbreakable silence between the two. Raniel added nothing more; he simply turned around, walked to the armchair in the corner of the room and sat down, crossing his legs and letting the truth of that sentence hang in the air.
Michael remained motionless in the center of the room, his mind processing the weight of that reflection while the unconscious man on the floor continued to breathe heavily.