The room smelled of antiseptic and cold metal.

Ethan’s wrists were bound to the chair with industrial zip ties, biting into his skin every time he moved. Blood traced a thin line down his temple, dripping onto the concrete floor in slow, deliberate drops—as if time itself had decided to mock him.

Davin circled him like a patient predator.

“You know,” Davin said calmly, straightening his cufflinks, “this isn’t personal. It’s strategic.”

Ethan lifted his head with effort, eyes burning despite the pain.

“You’re lying,” he rasped. “You don’t know how to do anything without making it personal.”

Davin smiled.

“That,” he replied, “is exactly why you’re here.”

A man...