The Old Feelings
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Mathis gazed at Bree, her concerned eyes searching his, as if trying to decipher the turmoil beneath his calm façade. He offered her a faint, strained smile before rising from his seat and retrieving his jacket. "I need to step out for a bit; I'll return soon," he said, his voice carrying an edge of uncertainty.
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Bree's surprise was evident, but she didn't question him, watching him leave with a mix of worry and resignation. As Mathis stepped into the crisp night air and slid into the car seat, a storm of memories and emotions swirled within him. He leaned back, closing his eyes, but found no escape from the onslaught of guilt and regret that had haunted him for years. Seeking help from Erik... Was it the right thing to do?
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His hands trembled slightly as he pulled out his phone, his thumb hesitating over the screen. Finally, he pressed the number buried in his contacts list, one he had sworn never to dial again. The phone buzzed in his ear, each ring a painful reminder of the past he couldn't erase. After what felt like an eternity, the call connected.
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"Yes, this is Erik," a cold and detached voice said.
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Mathis's breath caught in his throat. He hadn't heard that voice in years, yet it was as familiar as his daily guilt. "Hi, Erik, it's Mathis," he began, his voice faltering, "Long time no see, huh?"
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The silence on the other end was palpable, a heavy, suffocating void that only deepened Mathis's anxiety. He could almost hear Erik's thoughts—the anger and betrayal simmering beneath the surface.
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Finally, Erik spoke, his words sharp and laced with bitterness. "Mathis, what do you want after what you did? You've got a lot of nerve calling me."
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Mathis stared out the car window, his reflection blurred by the streaks of rain on the glass. His expression was etched with years of pain and regret, emotions he had buried but never honestly forgotten. "Erik, I'm truly sorry," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "It's a difficult situation, but I need your help."
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The line was silent again, and Mathis could almost feel Erik wrestling with his emotions, torn between his anger and the remnants of a once-strong bond. When Erik finally spoke, his voice was heavy with accusation. "It's your responsibility for what happened to her and the children."
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The words struck Mathis like a physical blow, reopening wounds that had never fully healed. He clenched his jaw, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. He looked at himself in the mirror again, seeing not just his reflection but the ghosts of his past—his wife, their child—lost to him forever. "I want to make it clear that I didn't kill them," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "I loved them deeply, and what happened... was an accident. I know our constant arguing isn't what your sister would have wanted. Erik, I can't bring them back, but I need to move forward, and I can't do it alone."
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Erik's sigh crackled through the phone, a sound of resignation. "I still believe your work was the reason for their deaths," he said, his voice tinged with sorrow. "But I owe it to my sister to help you. What do you need?"
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Mathis exhaled, feeling a slight, bittersweet relief wash over him. "I need a personalized key card," he explained. "One that can grant me access to all card-locked doors."
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Erik was silent for a moment, then spoke again, more subdued. "I know someone who can make that. He owes me a favor. I'll call him and get back to you."
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Mathis nodded, even though Erik couldn't see him. "Thank you, Erik," he said quietly.
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The call ended, and Mathis slumped back in his seat, staring blankly at the passing cityscape. The noise of the streets barely registered; his mind was consumed with memories of the life he had lost. He wondered, not for the first time, if he was to blame—if his obsession with his work had led to the tragedy that shattered his world.
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The shrill ring of his phone jolted him from his thoughts. "Hello?" he answered, a trace of hope in his voice.
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"Mathis, it's Erik," came the reply. "I've spoken to the guy. He'll make the card for you. He'll meet you in one of the old apartments I used during a construction project. I'll send you the address, but you must find another way to get in. I'll also send you a picture of the man so you can recognize him."
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As night fell, Mathis drove through the crowded streets, his mind reverting to the past. He navigated into a narrow, dimly lit alleyway, the buildings around him looming like silent witnesses to his inner turmoil. When he reached the designated building, he paused before the heavy steel door, feeling the weight of the situation press down on him.
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With practiced precision, he pulled out two slender metal tools and carefully picked the lock, his heart pounding with each twist of the metal. As the lock clicked open, he hesitated, taking a deep breath before stepping inside.
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The air was thick with the musty scent of neglect. The stairwell, bathed in the faint glow of old, flickering lights, seemed to close around him as he made his way to the second floor. Every step echoed in the silence, amplifying the tight tension in his chest.
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When he reached the door, he paused again, listening intently. His fingers traced the edge of his gun, a reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. With a steady hand, he picked the lock and slowly pushed the door open, the creak of the hinges echoing through the space.
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Inside, the apartment was a time capsule of decay, with dust-covered furniture and faded wallpaper that whispered of better days long past. Mathis moved cautiously, his senses heightened, his weapon at the ready. He settled into a worn, floral-patterned chair, the silence amplifying the ticking of his watch. Time seemed to crawl as he waited, the seconds stretching into what felt like hours.
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Then, the door creaked open, followed by footsteps approaching. Mathis rose silently, his gun poised, ready to defend himself against any threat. The footsteps grew louder, then stopped at the end of the hallway.
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"Are you Mathis?" a voice called out.
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Mathis narrowed his eyes, taking in the figure at the end of the hall—a short, balding man with a round face and piercing eyes. He slowly lowered his weapon, his fingers trembling slightly as he re-engaged the safety. "Yes, I'm Mathis. Who sent you?"
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"Erik," the man replied, his voice steady. "You're here for the access card?"
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Mathis nodded, eyeing the man warily. "You've got it?"
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The man reached into his bag and pulled out a gold key card, holding it up with pride. "This will get you into any card-locked door," he explained. "No traces, no records."
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Mathis took the card, turning it over in his hands, his mind racing with doubts. "And it won't be recognized?"
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The man shook his head. "It's untraceable. Erik made sure of that."
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As the man turned to leave, Mathis called after him. "Do I owe you anything for this?"
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The man paused, glancing back with a small smile. "No. Erik took care of it."
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Mathis watched him go, the door clicking shut, echoing through the empty apartment. He stared at the card in his hand, feeling its weight in his palm, knowing it was more than just a tool—it symbolized the choices he had made, the lives he had lost, and the path he was now committed to.
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As he returned to the car, the night air felt heavy, laden with memories he could never escape. He slipped the card into his pocket and started the engine, driving towards the motel with a heart burdened by the past and a future fraught with uncertainty.
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