Mike had never been one for onions, yet that night, he hadn't missed a single one.
Was this man really the Mike I knew?
My heart was racing, tinged with a whisper of fear.
Mike was swiftly handling the dishes, my gaze locked on his arm.
There was a light pink scar on his brawny arm, a badge from when we were new, trying to shield me, and a shard of glass got him instead.
At that moment, I was certain—the man before me was indeed Mike.
"Noticed the beef was loaded with onions," I dropped casually.
He shrugged it off, "Really? Must've wolfed it down without tasting much."
Really?
That can't be right!
He's super sensitive to onions—could tell if they were even near his food and would refuse to eat it.
How could he possibly not have noticed?
I was about to respond when the doorbell chimed.
The hotel staff was there to pick up the dishes, and Mike took the chance to ask them to fix a clogged drain.
His phone was still on the table, lighting up suddenly.
I sneaked a peek instinctively.
My heart skipped a beat.
The screen showed a chilling message: [When are you going to do it...?]
Mike was plotting to kill me!