In the speck of dawn, the streak of lights flowed through the slits of trees in the foggy forest. Looming trees on the edges, the shadowy narrow road with often less people travelled by—this while had rumbling cars flying on the pavement.
In the end of the line, the armed Rolls Royce in the front turns left to the dirt road of a familiar trail of tires and deadleaves.
Deeper in the wild, the car pulls over at the sight of an abandoned factory overgrown with nature—which once used to be a small business of charcoal production.
Following behind, the three bulletproof black Range Rover strains to a stop.
A man in his forties, donned in a slick formal wear walks out the Rolls Royce in poise and reaches to open the door of the passenger's seat.
As the Boss steps out, his familiar grim stare collides with the tall slim stature of the Manager. Instantly—subconsciously Manager Cha bows down his head, gaze lowered to the expensive black-lace up formal shoe of his Boss, they were shining, and he could even see his reflection.
"Mr. Marcola is been taken care of inside Boss." He says, and only a low hum from Ishmael reaches his ears.
Ishmael makes his way towards the massive, rusty factory shrouded in vegetation.
Manager Cha glances at their cruel looking armed accomplices standing alert, all dressed in a uniform of black formal attire—with white shirt and black tie underneath.
He briefly instructs half of them to stay in the peripheral and keep an eye—while the rest of the underlings are ordered to follow him to the factory where their Boss is headed.
The moment Ishmael walks in, a piercing scream of a man slashes the eerie air of the tenebrious building. But it doesn't falter him to halt his feet, the shrieks of agony intensifying with each stride of his tall legs.
His men and Manager Cha catches up to him when he reaches an enormous hall, with the tarnished floor cluttered in broken rods and sharp pieces of glass and concrete.
Ishmael stands there in a distance, the source of the screams of terror right before his dark brown saturine eyes.
A shallow, sinsister smirk curves up the corner of his lips. He wears a face of Adonis—perfectly carved with healthy honey tanned skin, wickedly handsome with his slicked back hair dark like the sombre night, falling down the shoulder in waves.
But Ishmael's good charms never defied the Hellborn demeanour bleeding out of him.
"Did he reveal the names?" Ishmael's gravelly, monotonous voice interrogates his right–hand man, who aware of his presence ceased the onslaught—on a whimpering, bloodied, naked Marcola tied up to a torture chair of nails.
"Not yet." Zev responds.
Ishmael's face hardens. "Then why did you stop?" His authorative, harsh voice sends chills down Zev's spine.
"Apologies Raka." Zev responds, slightly dropping his head.
As Zev holds the leather, smoothly gliding his other grip through the handle, he whips back the lash made with spikes.
"No, please—" A yell of torment rips out Marcola's groggy throat as Zev with force continues flogging him again, cutting off his weak mumble.
"I'm sorry, please!" He cries out, begging Ishmael who lowers himself on a clean wooden chair brought by Manager Cha.
"Just kill me Raka!" Marcola sobs, looking up at him with all the strength left of him.
Ishmael tilts his head, looking at his bloody, sorry face. He says nothing, and continues watching him, brutally being slashed open—with indifference.
The early morning, warm sunrays seeps in through the broken glass windows, lush vegetation creeping on the dappled walls. Blood pools around the torture chair, wails of torment, asking to be spared welling out Marcola's bruised lips—the spikes hooking onto his back and as Zev whips it back, ripping away chunk of his meat along with the barbs.
He was dying. His face and body distorted, he was almost unrecognisable. The smell of smoke, blood, sweat and raw meat was nauseating.
Not a single part of his body remained unabused. It was such a pity. He was once trusted. A fellow dope dealer.
Unfortunately, greed had him stumble into this Hellhole.
He betrayed and sided with one of his rivals—shamefully unknown still, annexed billions worth of cocaine trafficked through the ocean.
Ishmael's patience was running out, he didn't have a whole day for this. Marcola was hell bent on not revealing the names.
Marcola was a family men, he loved his wife and children. Either he solely did it for greed, or was a victim of the family being taken hostage, he didn't care. He had betrayed him, and he will pay a very heavy price for it.
Ishmael rises to his feet. "Flay him, alive."
Zev halts. "Understood." He replies, and glances down again at a Marcolla passing out. He hints at the guard to bring him the blades.
While the man surveys through the large steel box of torture weapons for the best one, Zev pats Marcola's cheeks to wake him to full cognizance.
He even picks up a clean drinking bottle of water placed on the ground, lovingly feeding Marcola.
"Boss, Mr. Marcola still hadn't disclosed his associates." Manager Cha declares, the guards following behind them.
"Assasinate all the suspects, and their families." Ishmael flatly clears.
"Yes Boss." Manager Cha returns. It meant, Marcola's family is ill–fated too.
A flicker of sympathy and fear sears his chest.
Raka was ruthless. He knew no mercy.
---
(This Evening: In Neva's Apartment)
Neva holds a mug of hot chocolate, a book in the other hand. The sun was already obscured, the stars sparkling in the darkened sky.
She's reading a novel, resting in the balcony of her apartment, curled up on her great arm-chair, cocooned up in her warm fluffy quilt. She grins ear to ear; the cool autumn breeze making her blush.
Suddenly a thought blows over her mind, cracking the concentration on the tale.
Her 'Mystery Man', two days ago she found out his name.
The guy appears once a week, follows her around and then disappears. At this realization her plump lips makes a moue in annoyance.
Now and then, when she walked out her apartment, she couldn't help but take a look at his door. Maybe he was busy at work?
'Tsk! Talk about pursuing me.'
She hits her head twice with the book once she realises, how absurd were her thoughts.
She shuffles her body, adjusting on the chair to cozy up. She takes a sip of her drink—and continues reading, when suddenly her doorbell rings.
"Who could be at this hour?" She murmers to herself, glancing down at the lit screen of her cellphone placed on the tiny table beside her.
She shrugs, she doesn't expect any guest at any hour anyway.
Dragging her feet lazily, she makes it to the entrance door.
Twisting the door knob open, she peers up at the unwelcomed face.
Her orbs enlarges faced with her 'Mysterious man'.
"Good evening Angel." Rhett greets, the same sweet smile dancing on his lips.
Neva's face gleams, uncontrolled heart swirling in excitement. But she frowns in a wink, amused at the feeling.
"What do you want?" She bluntly asks.
"I want some sugar." He returns.