The dimly lit warehouse reeked of rust, oil, and lingering despair.

Tad paced back and forth, the soles of his boots scuffing against the concrete floor. His mood was foul, darker than the shadows pooling in the corners.

His shoulder still throbbed where the bullet had grazed him at Natasha’s place, a humiliating reminder of his botched attempt to rid himself of that meddling woman.

He rolled his shoulder, wincing slightly as he muttered curses under his breath.

"Incompetent idiots," he spat, slamming his fist against a metal table.

The tools on it rattled, the sound grating enough to worsen his mood.

The men around him stood silently, their gazes...