EVERLASTING (Charlotte's Story)

Chapter 48/195: Rooftop Showdown - Traits of the Son

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Drip. Drip. Drip.

My blurry vision eyed the blood droplets as they hit the ground, after having traced the long and well-steeped fingers of Rickard Ellington's left hand, clenched over his torso where he was just shot by none other than his own father.

Snapping my eyes towards his expression, it was hardly describable.

His eyes were wide, fixed on nothing in particular, as the greyness within them deepened further, yet they remained in ultimate stun. His lips were parted, and no motion was crossing his face.

I shifted, wanting to stand up, or collect my voice to speak, or anything, literally anything...

But my body failed me, in every sense of the word.

I fell in paralyzing shock.

The only person who seemed in the full comfort zone was none other than the shooter in question though, whose voice came once more in a slow, inhumane, and unshook manner:

"It seems to me you never took it as literally back then, hm?"

My heart tugged at itself, remembering what he was referncing. 

'You are aware you will regret, to the bone, ever aiming a threat in my direction, Alexander. Do you not?'

I shuddered. This... It was back in Dubai...

Good God...

It was not possible for someone who'd just shot his own son to be this unfazed.

What the hell.

I looked back towards the president, who seemed to have snapped out of his state of stun at this.

He had his left hand clenched over his wound, clearly in a faint attempt to block the bleeding. His lips were pursed, and his jaw was tight, almost about to break. 

As for his eyes, they stormed with millions of complex thoughts and storms and thunders. His eyebrows were slightly furrowed, and the steel in his eyes kept on frosting further to the core.

He didn't flinch, as he fixed the Chairman with unshaken pride and authority, hardly reflecting that a bullet had just penetrated his body.

One thing gave him off though.

The clearly clenched muscles of his neck, glinting under the sunset light with sweat that began forming from... pain. His biceps and chest were clearly clenched from under the suit, and his look stormed.

With not just chilliness and arrogance before his father.

But clear rage and deadly intent.

He retorted not, and his father's voice echoed, once again freezing my blood under its terrifying effect:

"Ah, my bad. Expecting an answer in your..." He paused, his criminal eyes narrowing into slits. "State."

Casually, he twirled the revolver around his index finger, still eyeing his bleeding son before him.

"Worry not, though. I am not interested in killing you, son. Paramedics and an ambulance are awaiting below the building to transport you." He spoke, his tone deepening in danger, as his beads, aside from the pure murderous intent in them, reflected clear... victory. "I am simply interested in one simple... question, before hand."