Victor Whitford sat slumped in the metal chair with his wrists tightly bound to the armrests and the faint glimmer of sweat dripping from his brow.
The concrete room around him was only lit by a single flickering bulb dangling from the ceiling. It reeked of mildew and desperation, a space void of hope.
His eyes darted between the two masked figures standing before him—the fox-masked woman, clad in a flowing Asian robe, and the towering man wearing a demon mask. His muscular frame resembled a silent executioner.
Victor's voice cracked, but he tried to sound defiant. "Do you idiots even know who I am? My father is Victor Whitford Sr.. One of the richest industrialists in the damn city! If you think you can keep me here forever, you're cooked! The cops are probably already breathing down your necks. You're going to regret this!"
