CHAPTER 77: The Provocation

CHAPTER 77: The Provocation

Silence hung heavy over the hall on the 24th floor. The tension between father and son remained palpable, but Azazael, with his imposing bearing and penetrating gaze, allowed a barely perceptible smile to escape. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table with a gesture that was both intimate and threatening.

"You know..." he began in a deep, grave voice, "I am proud of you, Phoenix. Of the man you have become. You have strength, you have presence... even when you defy me, when you look at me with that resentment boiling in your blood. That... that is worthy of a son of mine."

Phoenix narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowed. He didn't respond immediately; the coldness on his face contrasted with the weight of his father's words.

"Proud?" he repeated with irony, almost spitting the word. "You have no right to say that. You weren't there. You didn't raise me, you didn't pick me up when I fell. And now you come to claim credit?"

Azazael let out a low laugh that echoed in the empty hall. It wasn't mocking, but it was unsettling, as if darkness itself accompanied him.

"Precisely for that, I am proud. Because you survived without me. Because, even carrying the absence of your father, you are still here, standing, strong... a true wolf in a world of sheep. I need no excuses or forgiveness to see what you are. And what you are, son, is proof of my blood."

Phoenix clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the empty glass, but something in the way Azazael looked at him—that mix of hardness and strange, almost twisted affection—froze him inside.

Azazael leaned back in his seat, still with the same disturbing smile, and added in a lower tone:

"It makes me prouder to see you like this, burning against me, than bowed before anyone else. That is what I always wanted from you, even if I never said it out loud."

The atmosphere grew heavy with an air that was both paternal and threatening, as if Azazael's pride was both a recognition and a sentence.

The charged atmosphere on the 24th floor grew even denser when Azazael uttered a few words in a serene, almost nostalgic tone:

"You have a lot of me in you, son... but when I look you in the face, what I see most is your mother. Elizabeth."

The mention of the name was like a spark in a powder keg. Phoenix shot to his feet, eyes blazing, and with a roar of fury, he overturned the table towards his father. The impact reverberated through the hall, glasses and plates flew, wine spilled like blood on the marble floor.

Phoenix immediately retreated and assumed a fighting stance, breathing heavily, muscles tense, prepared for anything.

Azazael, however, did not react with violence. Slowly, with the calm of a predator sure of its dominance, he rose from his seat. His imposing figure eclipsed the lights of the hall, casting a shadow that loomed over Phoenix.

"I see I'm going to have to teach you manners," he said in a grave voice, without raising his tone, but each word weighed like a tombstone.

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Phoenix began to tremble. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, his breathing became irregular, and his legs threatened to give way. There was no blow or attack, but the sheer presence of his father paralyzed him.

Azazael took a step forward, pinning him with his burning gaze.

"Listen to me well, Phoenix," he whispered, in a tone that froze the blood. "Your rage amuses me... but your fear belongs to me. Never forget that, even if you want to deny it, you are my son... and against me, you will never have an escape."

Phoenix swallowed, but the words stuck in his throat. He tried to respond, but all he managed was to stammer, trembling even more, his lips stuttering.

The ensuing silence was even more terrifying than the threat itself.

The silence between them was broken brutally.
Azazael moved with a speed impossible to follow with the naked eye. His hand, heavy as a slab of steel, landed a violent slap against Phoenix's side. The blow sent him flying several meters until he slammed into the 24th-floor window.

The cracked glass groaned with a deafening sound, fissures spreading like spiderwebs across its surface. Phoenix was left hanging against it, his breathing ragged. Blood gushed from his nose, his eyes wept red, and his mouth spat dark drops that stained his elegant shirt.

A visceral roar escaped his throat. Fury devoured his lungs, and he launched himself with all his rage at his father, fists ready to destroy him.

But Azazael didn't move. He simply extended a hand and caught him by the head mid-leap, closing his grip like a vise. With one arm, he lifted him from the ground, holding him as if he weighed nothing.

Phoenix's feet kicked in the air, his hands trying to pry open the iron grip, but it was useless. Air escaped him, and all that remained was impotence.

Azazael stared fixedly into his eyes, the shadow of his face covering the young man. And then, he began his monologue, with that deep voice that pierced to the soul:

"Look at you, Phoenix... you think your rage makes you strong, but it's nothing more than the chain I placed on you the day you were born. You are fire without control, flesh that resists its own blood. You are my son... and even if you deny it, every cell in your body screams it."

He lifted him even higher, as if offering him to an inevitable fate.

"I haven't sought you out to play family, nor to beg for your affection. I have sought you because you are the living proof of what I am capable of creating. You are my work, my legacy... and someday, whether you want to or not, you will kneel before what I represent."

The glass behind them continued to groan under the pressure of the scene, as if the entire hall was about to burst.

Phoenix, his lungs burning and his vision blurred by the pressure of the grip, mustered the little strength he had left in his legs. With a roar, he launched an ascending kick at Azazael's torso. The impact didn't move him much, but it was enough to loosen the grip on his head for an instant.