In the speck of dawn, streaks of light flow through the slits between trees in the foggy forest.
Looming trees line the edges of a shadowy, narrow road—one seldom traveled, though this morning, rumbling engines echo as a convoy of cars speeds along the pavement.
At the front of the line, an armored Rolls-Royce turns left onto a dirt path, its tires crunching over a familiar trail of dead leaves and worn tracks.
Deeper into the wild, the car slows to a stop at the edge of an abandoned factory, now overgrown with vines and moss—a relic of a long-defunct charcoal business.
One by one, the three bulletproof black Range Rovers behind it come to a halt.
From the Rolls-Royce, a man in his forties, dressed in sleek formal wear, steps out with practiced poise. He circles to the passenger's side and opens the door.
As the Boss steps out, his familiar grim stare collides with the tall, slim stature of the Manager. Instinctively—almost subconsciously—Manager Cha bows his head, his gaze dropping to the expensive black lace-up shoes of his Boss. They gleam under the morning light; the reflection of his face clear in them.
"Mr. Marcola has been dealt with inside, Boss," he says, his tone flat and professional.
Only a low hum of acknowledgment from Ishmael reaches his ears.
Without another word, Ishmael strides toward the massive, rusted factory, its decaying structure now shrouded in creeping vines and wild overgrowth.
Manager Cha casts a quick glance at their armed entourage—each man sharp and cruel-looking, standing alert in matching black formal suits, white shirts, and crisp black ties.
He briefly instructs half of them to stay on the perimeter and keep watch—while the rest of the underlings are ordered to follow him toward the factory where their Boss is headed.
The moment Ishmael steps inside, a piercing scream slices through the eerie silence of the tenebrous building.
But his expression doesn't betray a flicker of fear or surprise. His tall strides remain steady, the shrieks of agony only growing louder, more desperate, with each step.
His men and Manager Cha catch up as he enters an enormous hall, its tarnished floor strewn with broken rods, shattered glass, and crumbled concrete.
Ishmael halts, eyes settling on the source of the cries.
From the shadows, he watches.
A shallow, sinister smirk curves at the corner of his lips.
He wears the face of an Adonis—perfectly carved features, honey-tanned skin, and hair slicked back like the somber night cascading down in silence..
Wickedly handsome, but cold. Brutal.
But Ishmael's good looks never defied the hellborn demeanor that bled from every inch of him.
"Did he reveal the names?" Ishmael's gravelly, monotonous voice cuts through the thick air, directed at his right-hand man—who, sensing his presence, had ceased the onslaught on a whimpering, bloodied, naked Marcola, bound to a torture chair lined with nails.
"Not yet," Zev responds, his voice low.
Ishmael's face hardens. "Then why did you stop?" The authority in his tone is razor-sharp, sending a chill down Zev's spine.
"Apologies, Raka," Zev murmurs, instinctively stepping aside.
As Zev grips the leather, he smoothly runs his other hand along the handle before snapping the spiked lash back with practiced ease.
"No, please—!"
A scream of torment tears from Marcola's raw throat as Zev drives another strike into his broken body, silencing the man's pitiful mumble.
"I'm sorry, please!" Marcola cries, pleading with Ishmael—who silently lowers himself onto a clean wooden chair brought over by Manager Cha.
"Just kill me, Raka!" he sobs, lifting his bloodied, tear-streaked face with the last ounce of strength he has.
Ishmael tilts his head slightly, eyes fixed on Marcola's mangled form. He says nothing. Only watches—detached, unmoved—as the man is flayed open before him.
Warm rays of early morning sun seep through the broken glass windows, casting dappled patterns across walls overgrown with creeping vegetation.
Blood pools beneath the torture chair. Marcola's bruised lips tremble, spilling hoarse wails—pleas for mercy lost in the cavernous, rotting air. The spiked lash hooks deep into his back, and as Zev rips it away, it tears chunks of flesh with it.
He is dying. His face—bloated and disfigured—is nearly unrecognizable. The thick stench of smoke, blood, sweat, and raw meat clogs the air, vile and suffocating.
Not a single inch of his body remains untouched. It's a grotesque pity. He was once trusted. A fellow dope dealer.
But greed dragged him into this hellhole.
He betrayed the family—sided with a rival still unknown—and helped siphon off cocaine worth billions.
Ishmael's patience wears thin. He doesn't have the luxury of a whole day—Marcola refuses to give up the names.
The man was a family man. He loved his wife and children.
Whether he acted out of greed or because they were being held hostage—Ishmael doesn't care.
Marcola had betrayed him, and he will pay a heavy price for it.
Ishmael rises to his feet, eyes cold. "Make sure his family burns with him."
Zev freezes, then nods. "Understood," he says, glancing down at Marcola—who now drifts on the edge of unconsciousness.
---
Neva cradles a mug of hot chocolate in one hand, a book in the other.
The sun has long dipped below the horizon, stars now freckling the velvet sky. She's curled up in her great armchair on the apartment balcony, cocooned snugly in a warm, fluffy quilt. A grin tugs at her lips as the crisp autumn breeze brushes against her cheeks, tinting them pink.
She's deep into her novel—until a sudden thought drifts in, shattering her focus.
Her Mystery Man.
Two days ago, she finally learned his name. Rhett.
He shows up once a week, tails her around like a shadow, only to vanish just as quickly.
The thought makes her lips pout in mild irritation.
Every now and then, when she steps out of her apartment, her eyes involuntarily flick toward his door.
Maybe he's busy with work?
Tsk. Talk about pursuing me, she scoffs inwardly.
She flicks her forehead lightly with the edge of the book, realizing how absurd are her thoughts.
With a soft huff, she shuffles in her chair, curling deeper into her cozy nest. She brings the mug to her lips for another sip of hot chocolate, eyes drifting back to the page—when suddenly, the doorbell rings.
"Who could that be at this hour?" she mutters, glancing at the glowing screen of her phone resting on the side table. No messages. No missed calls.
She shrugs, placing the book aside.
She doesn't expect visitors—ever.
Dragging her feet lazily across the floor, she reaches the entrance and twists the doorknob open.
Her gaze lifts—and her eyes widen instantly.
Standing at her doorstep is her Mysterious Man.
"Good evening, Angel," Rhett says, that sweet, familiar teasing smile playing on his lips.
Neva's face gleams before she can stop it—her heart swirling in an unexpected rush of excitement. But the sparkle vanishes just as quickly, her brows furrowing in mock annoyance, amused at her own reaction.
"What do you want?" she asks bluntly, folding her arms across her chest.
Rhett leans casually against the doorframe, that lazy grin never leaving his lips. "I want some sugar," he says.