Chapter 26: The House of Shadow

“We are free to choose our paths, but we can’t choose the consequences that come with them.”

— Sean Covey

The orange-purple evening sun filtered through Cardiff's modern Victorian skyline, casting long, stretching shadows that danced across the stone-paved streets like ghosts of the past. The old buildings fused with modern skyscrapers, dressed in shades of mystical purple and amber, seemed to reflect in silence, as if privy to the duality of Alex's unfolding fate.  Ray’s dark blue Range Rover purred softly, its sleek exterior reflecting the sunset’s hues, gliding through the quiet evening streets with an almost predatory grace, a calm exterior masking the storm brewing within. In the front seat, Alex sat motionless, his fingers nervously kneading the straps of a battered backpack that rested next to his lap. At the back of the car, two black bin bags bulged with the remnants of his life, a tangible reminder of the choices that led him here.  Each shake of the vehicle seemed to ripple through his bones, a reminder of the crushing burden of regret and resignation pressing on him as if a concrete block had once fallen on him, leaving broken bones and a bruised body, unable to resist, unable to rise.

“I must do this or else...” a reassuring voice sounded while he was overlooking mesmerizing Cardiff's cityscape out the window.  Ray navigated with practiced ease, the brand-new car almost driving with one finger, his dark curly hair catching the dying light, his sharp jawline set with unspoken understanding. Familiar landmarks of Cardiff drifted past under illuminated streetlights, each one blurring like frames from a half-remembered film. The Range Rover curved through streets that seemed to stretch endlessly ahead, much like Dr. Banks' journey to her destiny. Arrival's' movie scene where time felt elastic, elongating and contracting with each passing moment. The city lights created circular patterns through the windscreen, like alien symbols promising transformation. Alex watched as the known world dissolved into something different, entering what felt like a portal into another life—one where his marriage hadn't eroded, bankruptcy hadn't consumed him, and his entrepreneurial dreams hadn't turned into dust. With each streetlight they passed marked another threshold, another step away from the known, into a future as uncertain as it was inevitable.

His mind flashed back to their first meeting nearly two years ago, when desperate searches for relief from back pain, sleepless nights, and enormous chronic stress led him to an unexpected friendship. The memory remained crystalline: sunlight streaming through the kitchen windows, casting an almost prophetic glow as Anatig invited Ray to her house and made the introductions. Ray had approached with the fluid grace of his swimming champion past, offering a firm handshake, a smile, and extensive knowledge on the topic that Alex was searching for. Back then the meeting felt like salvation a north star against the encroaching darkness he couldn't yet see. But now, as the evening shadows stretched long and cold, they bore the crushing weight of his surrender to a reality he’d never foreseen, pulling him inexorably into its grip.

The Range Rover pulled up on one of Adamstown's streets, requiring a short walk to 77 Cecil Street, where Alex's breath suddenly froze. The Victorian building's cream-colored bricks absorbed the fading light, its windows with dirty blinds reflecting the day's death with uncomfortable clarity. The wooden sky-blue door stood as a deceptively cheerful sentinel, guarding whatever future lay beyond. Inside, emptiness echoed through bare rooms; a stained, smelly staircase carpet and kitchen with only a water sink reminding how much life this house saw—a blank framework awaiting the next chapter of his life. Dust particles swirled with every move through the rooms in the remaining light, coating laminated wooden floors that had witnessed countless stories, while stripped walls with peeling wallpapers stood as silent judges of lives long moved on.

"Welcome to your new chapter," Ray said, gesturing towards only furniture in the house a lone old black foldable sofa—the only furniture in the house that would become Alex's new reality. The words reverberated through the empty space, carrying equal measures of promise and warning. Alex's mind raced, flitting chaotically between images of present and the past what could have been: brilliant minds he'd debated technology business plans and projections with during his startup days, the look in his wife's eyes when he'd admitted defeat, the stark reality of his four-hour warehouse shift, the blind people who were showing him the way, and now this hollow house holding uncertain possibilities. His sad face, hands trembling slightly as he set down his bags, was a detail he tried to hide, but Ray noticed everything. He disappeared briefly, returning with a plate bearing lines of white powder and a bottle of Jack Daniels. The choice presented itself with vivid clarity—face reality or numb it completely.

"Fuck it," Alex muttered, the words tasting like surrender on his tongue. As night claimed the house, their conversation flowed with chemical freedom, each line of cocaine sharpening his focus while whiskey softened the edges of his conscience. Plans emerged from the darkness, promises were exchanged, and boundaries began to blur like watercolors in the rain. Through the chemical haze, Alex watched himself from somewhere deep inside—the writer in him taking notes on his own descent, even as he participated in it.

When morning light crept through dusty windows, Alex awakened to fragmented memories of two Romanian prostitutes struggling to make him cum and the nauseating realization that he'd crossed a line, numbing the pain even for the moment. His reflection in a cracked bathroom mirror told its own story—dark circles beneath bloodshot eyes, a blocked nose, and a face he barely recognized staring back with accusation. The writer in him searched for words to describe this moment: ''fucking clown'' said a voice emerging through the inner silence. Some aspects of transformations, he realized, were better left undocumented.

The next few days blurred into one, a whirlwind of furious deliveries and hasty preparations. Boxes with equipment and soil were delivered carefully, each room reimagined, transforming the house into a space suitable for fertile growth. Every new piece of furniture found its purpose, every corner became a potential haven for life; they worked tirelessly so that the space would become more than just a home. For Alex, this house became his only home where he could live at that time, with a dream greenhouse overhead. Friday arrived quickly—the day, the moment that Alex both awaited and feared: the meeting with the team. The location?

The garage materialized in nearby city Newport's industrial haze like a gateway to another world. Its weathered green shutters and yellow brick exterior masked a complex ecosystem of power, crime, and survival that Alex was about to enter.  When entering the building, his skin prickled as an electric tension accompanied the pungent aroma of oil and metal in the air.

“Hey, Zeke!” said Ray.  At the same moment, somebody turned around and started walking towards Alex. “This is the gardener I was telling you about,” he continued. “He will help us out with the new project.”

Alex's heart hammered against his ribs, cocaine-sharpened senses hyperaware of every detail. Ben, known as Zeke, commanded the space with the quiet authority of a predator. Prison had sculpted him into something harder than steel, each movement calculated and precise. Tattoos mapped his life story across muscled arms—complex abstract patterns intertwined with darker symbols, each marking a chapter written in pain and power. The gaze in his eyes, cold and evaluating, which Alex dissected with surgical precision.

"Come upstairs to the office,'' said Zeke.

As they started walking up the stairs, Alex observed two more people in working clothes covered in black stains of oil staring at him with a strange look almost like 'you are not welcome here'' in between dismayed cars on lifted platforms.

Two more figures lurked upstairs in the office: Morpheus, Zeke's shadow and personal shield, and Ted—a man who wore two faces. As Zeke's executioner, Ted's hands were permanently stained with the work of his trade. Yet he was Anatig's sister's boyfriend years ago.  Those same hands had extended in friendship to Alex, helping him plant roots in Cardiff with a steady job as a delivery driver. Now, in life's cruel twist of irony, Ted stood in judgment once again, though this time his verdict carried far darker implications; they needed a loyal servant, and that is what Alex humbled himself for.

Temporary office upstairs, with legitimate car registration documents, darker books, and stacks of boxes with top-quality "Penderyn" whiskey, became the scene of Alex's interrogation. Remigijus presented the potential value of the new project, while "Morpheus" held his position by the door, his silence more eloquent than any threat, and the air hung heavy with the scent of secret deals. "Zekas" remained silent as Tadas murmured something to Remigijus in the corner of the office. And right after that, upon leaving the garage below, Alex had more questions than answers, his heart pounding from unclear feelings that followed him from within.

On the way back to Cardiff. The invitation arrived for the evening via an encrypted message—three lines of text that would alter the course of Alex's life.

Induction Party

8:00 PM

Hub'

The garage mechanics oasis ambushed Alex's senses—a hidden warren perched below their operation office that he'd somehow missed before. A grimy round table huddled next to what passed for a kitchen, a big long couch just next to a microwave caked with ancient splatter marks and a cupboard that reeked of stale food. Bass-heavy Russian music hammered through high-end speakers fitted in the car, a jarring contrast to the scene in the garage. What should have been glamorous—women and men in knockoff attire—instead revealed a parade of fake, bad-taste dressing and hollow-eyed desperation. Romanian, Polish, and Welsh escorts drifted like wounded birds, their makeup failing to hide eyes that could not focus, drifting aimlessly, track marks and sunken cheeks. The learned smiles and concealing makeup turned into angry, tired clowns, just wrenched from sleep. They failed to hide the empty gazes, greedily seeking chemical salvation, while the movements were nervous and artificial under the grim garage lighting. Fake designer labels hung from skeletal frames, an absurd costume party where nobody was fooling anyone.

Alex sat down next to Morpheus a man who did not talk much.

"Watch your words here." There will be many things you will see as you are with us now,'' Morpheus had whispered, his breath hot against Alex's ear. "Remember, some cleaning services leave no trace."

The warning settled into Alex's bones as he watched chemical euphoria in the background and how it ruled this space. The air itself seemed intoxicated—dancing girls, cocaine catching the light on stainless steel almost like mirror plates, while premium whiskey cut through the haze with amber promises. Some chased their highs through crack pipes, others chased the girls, the main gang rolled 50-pound bills and lined cocaine with credit cards, and the rest threw joints that glowed like devil's eyes in the darkness. The whole garage marinated in a collective escape, each person chasing their own preferred poison.

Alex was no different. It was a night to remember, and somehow this helped him excel. Soon each successful run elevated Alex's status. His dedication to the greenhouse work and instincts behind the wheel proved exceptional—whether navigating midnight backroads with a stolen luxury SUV or executing precise deliveries of carefully concealed packages. The cannabis dulled his moral compass while cocaine transformed him into a machine of perfect timing and calculated risks. His reputation grew with every completed job with no trace, each success drawing him deeper into the organization's dark and desperate corners. The legal warehouse job faded like a distant memory; however, dedicated time to the Royal Blind Society did remain a priority. Four hours of sorting packages seemed laughable compared to the electric thrill of high-speed runs across Wales and England. Money started flowing freely now, more than he'd anticipated, but each stack came wrapped in invisible chains. The scale of operations revealed itself—a Fortune 500 of filth, with quarterly profits measured in shattered lives, broken dreams, lust and addiction.

In one of the gardens, Ray observed Alex while his hands mixed weed, teaching him better dry techniques of the product. ''Alex, you're becoming invaluable. But remember one thing: visibility in this world is a double-edged sword." The words came as wisdom in disguise of clear warning beneath the praise. Alex's transformation accelerated with each passing week. Discipline, diligence, commitment, and no fear became his mantra. The correct weed was making him invincible. By day, he maintained the growing operation in the house, finding an unexpected peace in the routine of trimming and nurturing the plants. But nights belonged to a darker art—the precise choreography of timing and delivery, each job a dance with consequences he refused to fully contemplate. Until the realization crept in: he had no memory of a day untouched by intoxication. Every day he was using some sort of drug mixed with alcohol; and soon the dual life began to wear on him in subtle ways. His hands would shake until the first line of morning cocaine or crack pipe before another car or drug delivery run. Hypervigilant rest in between jobs became the norm, replacing sleep as a stranger. And the writer in him watched it all with detached fascination, mentally documenting his own demise while being powerless to stop it. In the quiet moments between rides, drugs dulled the emotional pain, while money bought temporary relief. Anatig didn't complain. She received the money, Vilhelmas was provided for, but beneath the chemically induced emotional calm, a storm was quietly brewing.

Alex caught glimpses of his reflection in the mirrors of stolen cars—each time, the face staring back seemed more distant, more alien, and the inner voice began whispering something ever louder.

What am I doing?

Where am I going with this?

Twenty years in prison haunted his thoughts like a ghost, while the memory of who he used to be dissolved like a mist cloud in the air.

“I am fucking done. I need a real solution!”

Do you hear me Alex!’’

NEXT WEEK! Chapter 27 : Escape from Self

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