The damp air inside the abandoned Brooklyn warehouse smelled heavily of rusted iron, old dust, and rotting wood. Clara sat tied firmly to a heavy wooden chair, her wrists bound tight behind her back with thick nylon zip ties. The skin of her arms burned from the struggle, but she kept her chin lifted high, refusing to show any sign of weakness to the men watching her.

Marcus stood near a rusted metal desk a few feet away, holding a dirty handkerchief against his bleeding hand where she had bitten him earlier. He glared at her with pure hatred, his face twisted in anger.

"You have spirit, Clara," Marcus hissed,...