A Man's Perspective の小説・ストーリー

The man looked back at me. Something in the quality of his regard had shifted, and I thought that what had shifted was the model he was working from, the model built on my father's observations and the woman's observations and all the careful watching that had produced a picture of me as someone who could be moved by the right application of pressure. The picture was not wrong, exactly. But it was incomplete. "You are going to be very difficult to work with," he said.

Deep breaths. The man before me doesn't say anything. If he'd noticed my mild episode of panic, he doesn't make any comment about it, and I don't know what to make of that. He's either too self-absorbed to see the pain of others, or he just doesn't care. I stiffen my jaw. "Don't try to make this look like you're doing me a favour." "Doing you a favour?" He scoffs. "You really have no idea about how things work here, do you?"

Jordan's P O V The strange man who is the reason I'm being held captive moved away from me after having whispered close to my ears and he returned himself back to his wheelchair still with a disturbing expression on his face and everything about him was questionable. I mean, who uses a wheelchair when he walks perfectly fine. And why does he have a resting evil face?

"It's a way to help those who need it. Sometimes people don't realize they're making a difference, but they are. You don't have to be a police officer to help those who need it.” "I know, but I think that for the great gossiper that I am, being part of the investigations and discovering all the gossip beforehand would be satisfactory "I spoke with a smile, the man muffled the laughter in the mouth of the beer bottle. "Someday I hope to have the chance to do this. I'll try to study and focus on what I need. Right now, I'm just trying to live. Many things have happened in the last few months of my life. Some tragedies. Things that shook me deeply. So I need to find a way to deal with it, befor

THIRD PERSON'S POV In a dimly lit office, where maps of the territories are pinned and red strings connect pins across territories, a man paces furiously. The air is thick with the scent of cigar smoke and tension. He suddenly turns to face his subordinate, who stands before the desk with his eyes fixed on the floor and his shoulders hunched. Sweat beads on his temple. "Twenty men," the leader hisses, low and dangerous. "Twenty of our warriors are gone. For nothing. The Alpha is still breathing."

On the back, in someone's neat handwriting, names corresponding to positions. I read them. Third from the right. I turned the photograph over and looked at the man. Fifties. Silver-haired. The particular build of someone who had been athletic in his youth and had let time and prosperity do what time and prosperity do. He was not looking at the camera. He was looking at Victor Holt with an expression I could not quite name from this angle and this distance. But his hands were visible. His right hand specifically. I looked at it for a long time.

I look back at the manager, who is staring at the middle distance with the expression of a man calculating whether any available outcome is a good one. It is not. But I appreciate that he is finally being realistic about it.

He jammed his hands in the front pockets of his khaki pants, because he didn’t know what else to do with them. The man and woman were equally wary, stopping five feet from him. Waiting. For what? For him to be the first one to speak? To explain? Near as he could tell, they were the ones who had a helluva lot of explaining to do. He turned his focus to the man. Probably in his early sixties. He wasn’t tall; he wasn’t short, just average height. Solidly built, not fat, not skinny, not muscular, not wiry, but his carriage and clothing screamed physical laborer. He had a full head of black hair randomly streaked with silver. When Gavin met the man’s eyes, blue eyes identical to the ones staring

As if that man was not even a human to him. What happened to the man that I had seen in the pictures? The soft, angelic man…? “I am not going anywhere,” I muttered, my voice laced with determination. It was none of my business but seeing them attack one man like this… it started to anger me. The man, now on his knees, appeared unscathed physically, but his trembling body and vacant gaze revealed the terror consuming him. His face was red and stained with tears. His hands rested on his knees, gripping them tightly, as he struggled to steady his breaths.