Nicholas's car rolled to a stop outside the warehouse. The moment the engine died, the air shifted—his men straightened, fell silent, and the only sounds were the clicking of shoes on gravel as Nicholas stepped out. Clad in a charcoal suit, coat fluttering with the wind, he looked every inch the devil dressed for vengeance.
His expression was unreadable, carved in stone. But the fury… it simmered just beneath the surface, quiet and restrained like the eye of a storm waiting to be unleashed.
The heavy steel doors creaked open at his approach. He stepped inside the warehouse, his footsteps echoing ominously. The overhead bulbs buzzed to life, bathing the space in harsh, flickering light. In the center of the room sat Ryan—bloodied, tied to a metal chair, ankles and wrists bound with thick leather straps.
The smell of blood, piss, and fear lingered in the air.
Nicholas's men stood back, forming a circle around Ryan like spectators to a ritual. And in many ways, it was one.
