A Man's Perspective Novels & Stories

He said slowly, looking straight into my eyes “I know that you have been through hell, but there's always more to a person, isn't it? You've seen his eyes, what do you see when you look at them?” “Pain... sorrow... regret...anger and a few times, fear” I sighed heavily, not wanting to admit what I already knew to be true. I looked down at the floor feeling ashamed at being caught out. “Exactly” the old man smiled reassuringly at me. “Everyone has those, you don't see us taking it out on others” I argued back. The man looked at me as if I were an insolent child who didn't understand much and shook his head “Not everyone can be as strong as you are. Some of us need someone to help us”

“They’re gone. One fled the country. One turned witness. The last… he’s probably still looking for work.” I took in his appearance again — the worn clothes, the sunken eyes, the tired posture. Not a villain. Just a man who lost his way. “What do you want from me?” I finally asked. He looked up — almost startled. “Nothing,” he said. “I need nothing from you. I just wanted you to know you weren’t crazy. You weren’t imagining the feeling of being watched. It was real. And it was wrong.” A slow exhale left me.

This was a man reading because that was the thing he was doing and nothing else was competing. I lay and watched him for a moment. He looked younger. Not dramatically, not in a way I could have pointed to precisely, but something about his face in repose without the low level tension that had become so constant I had stopped noticing it until it was gone. The jaw without the tightness. The brow without the crease. The man on the other side of everything we had been through. "You're watching me again," he said without looking up. "I'm observing," I said. "We've been through this distinction."

He just moved, watching how I tracked him, how I adjusted without stepping away. “You’re steady,” he said. “But you’re not comfortable.” “I don’t need to be.” “That’s not what I meant,” he replied. The man on the chair moved closer now, stopping just inside my peripheral vision. “You’re careful about where you stand.” “I like knowing my options.” “And how many do you think you have right now?” he asked. I didn’t answer. The man with the glass set it down. The sound was soft but deliberate. “You could walk out.”

The man sat all alone with just his drink and phone . He looked like he had something that was bothering him . I watched his every move but his gaze still did not leave me even though I sat here right in front of him . "Is there any problem Here mr ?" I asked looking at the man . I knew I shouldn't be doing this but one thing I must commend was the fact that this man was good looking . He had the most interesting and rather handsome face. He's the most beautiful man that I had ever seen ,he was tall and his Hazel eyes made him more outstanding .

At this point, I'm just buying time, while my mind clambers to think of a way to get out of this. The man glances up at me. Through his dark strands of hair, are eyes of pure obsidian to match. My blood runs cold at the sight of them. Is this what pure evil looks like, wrapped in a spectacular body. “It just doesn't make sense to me, how someone can take another person's life, just because they want the best for their people,” I continue. He watches me, not saying a word. “And with knives,” I say, swallowing as my gaze drifts down to the blades glinting brilliantly on his thighs. “It just seems so cruel.”

He reminds me of Uncle Craig, charismatic and bold—deceptively so. My fourth captor is smaller than the others and less confident. He stands to the side, shoulders hunched like he’s trying to shrink in on himself, but that doesn’t make him appear any smaller. His expression is bitter, a permanent scowl etched onto his face. Unlike the others, he isn’t looking at me, but at the fifth and final man in the room—almost as if searching for approval. Alexander Mancini is the man on whom I focus.

But that had been before everything in his life had begun to slide down into the depths of despair. Irritated, he shook the thoughts away and trained his lens on the man. As he zoomed in on the man, he felt a slight twinge of alarm. That hard profile, the cold blue-grey eyes, the nose with a broken bent and the air of confidence, the immediate respect he seemed to command.

He feels the presence of a few more people behind him as well, he's surrounded. “Are you Lawson?” the tall man asks. Nothing in his tone asks for permission. “That’s me,” Aaron answers. His voice tries to be steady and he mostly succeeds. He keeps his hands visible. “Can I help you gentleman?” The man smiles thinly, without humor. “You helped yourself, Mr. Lawson, but you helped a man you thought needed saving. Those are two different things, two things can be done, but in this case, not both things are right." He takes off his sunglasses despite the dark, and Aaron realizes the eyes beneath are cold and clean as a blade. “Do you know what that looks like to us?”

I knew every rule. A voice came from the far end of the corridor. Low. Male. Dry. "You didn't flinch." I turned. A man leaned against the wall with his arms crossed. Lean, dark-eyed, face unreadable. He wore Ironveil black but no insignia on his collar. Either no rank or so far above rank that marks had become pointless. I guessed the second. "Most people flinch," he said. "Most people have something to protect," I answered. He looked at me a long beat. Something shifted in his eyes. Just the small click of a man updating a calculation he thought he had finished.