Alzees woke up groggily, his head pounding as the haze of unconsciousness slowly lifted. He blinked against the dim light in the room, trying to make sense of where he was. The cold metal bite of restraints around his wrists held him in place, tethering him to a rough, wooden chair. Panic surged through him as he struggled against the bindings, his breath quickening.
"Hello?!" he called out, his voice cracking in fear. "Somebody help me!"
The room was suffocatingly quiet, the only sound his own ragged breathing. He tugged harder at the restraints, but they held firm. His mind raced, trying to piece together how he had ended up here. The last thing he remembered was being at the flea market, speaking with that group—the hooded figure, the deal—it had been just another business transaction. Or so he had thought.
Suddenly, the door creaked open, and a shadowy figure stepped into the room. Orwen. Alzees' heart dropped into his stomach, cold dread creeping up his spine. Orwen moved with an unnerving calm, his expression a mix of condescension and amusement as he smirked at Alzees' obvious distress.
"Well, well," Orwen said, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "Looks like someone's finally awake. I was starting to think you were going to sleep through your little... interrogation."
Alzees' eyes darted around the room, but there was no escape, no one to help him. His voice trembled as he spoke. "I-I'm not part of the market. I just needed the money. I lost my job, my wife, my kids... my entire life!!... my own family kicked me out... I didn't know what else to do." His words came out in a rush, hoping for some flicker of sympathy.
Orwen's smile faded, his expression darkening. He took a step closer, towering over Alzees. "I don't care about your excuses," Orwen hissed. "What I care about is who you met at that market. The people you were dealing with. I want names, faces—now."
Alzees' breath caught in his throat. His hands shook, but he couldn't bring himself to answer. Orwen's patience was wearing thin. With a sudden, brutal motion, he slapped Alzees hard across the face, the sharp crack of the impact echoing through the small room.
"Don't lie to me," Orwen growled, his voice low and dangerous. "I already know your history. I know everything about you, Alzees. Your connections, your debts. You're sweating because you're scared. But I promise you, there are worse things than fear. So talk."
Alzees sat there, his cheek burning from the slap, cold sweat dripping down his temples. The truth was stuck in his throat, tangled with his fear. He had been drawn into something far darker than he had imagined, and now he was trapped. The only thing keeping him from spilling everything was the knowledge that doing so might get him killed—by Orwen or by the people he'd crossed.
He swallowed hard, his mind racing for a way out, but Orwen's piercing gaze left no room for escape.
---
Meanwhile, several miles away, the black van continued down the highway, weaving through traffic at a steady pace. The two suitmen in the black coupe, wearing their familiar ski masks, kept a careful distance, maintaining visual contact without drawing attention. The van's back windows were tinted, concealing whatever was happening inside, but the suitmen weren't concerned. They had already bugged the van earlier, their devices discreetly hidden inside the vehicle to gather intel on the group they were tailing.
The driver of the coupe, his eyes sharp behind the ski mask, recorded a quick memo. "Tracking the target vehicle. All seems quiet. Holding distance."
As he finished the message, something strange happened.
The back doors of the van suddenly swung open, and a figure was hurled from the rear, flung violently onto the road. The man's body tumbled across the asphalt before landing squarely on the coupe's windshield with a loud thud, his face pressed grotesquely against the glass.
The suitmen jerked back in shock as the coupe swerved dangerously. The man on the windshield was filthy—his eyes were wide and pearly, his teeth yellowed and cracked, his body ragged and twisted. His face contorted into a grimace, and he let out a guttural, feral sound as he latched onto the glass, clawing at it like an animal.
"Good Lord!" the passenger suitman cursed, pulling his suppressed pistol.
The coupe swerved again as the driver fought to maintain control, the man's weight throwing the vehicle off balance. Through the chaos, the driver managed to lower his side window just enough to aim his suppressed pistol. Without hesitation, he fired off a series of shots toward the van, hoping to hit someone inside.
One of the bullets struck true, and the van's back door slammed shut just as the driver inside was hit. The van veered violently, tires screeching against the road, before disappearing into the thick fog that had settled over the highway.
The ragged man was still latched onto the windshield, his nails scratching at the glass with a disturbing persistence. His mouth hung open, drooling, as if in some crazed state. With a sudden, jerky motion, he flung himself from the windshield and onto the road, tumbling like a ragdoll before coming to a stop.
The coupe screeched to a halt, and the two suitmen exited quickly, their weapons drawn and aimed at the man lying on the road.
They approached cautiously, their steps slow and deliberate. The ragged man's body lay still for a moment, a heap of broken limbs and torn clothes, but then he twitched. Slowly, almost mechanically, he rose to his feet, his head lolling to the side as he mumbled incoherently.
"What the hell...?" one of the suitmen muttered under his breath, his finger tightening on the trigger.
The man's movements became more erratic, his body jerking violently as he stumbled toward them, his mumbled words growing louder, more manic.
Without waiting any longer, the lead suitman fired. Two shots rang out, each one hitting the ragged man in the chest. But the man didn't stop. He staggered forward, eyes wide and unblinking, a strange, demonic smile spreading across his face.
A third shot rang out, this time hitting him square in the head.
The man collapsed to the ground in a heap, his body finally going limp, blood pooling beneath him on the cold asphalt.
The suitmen stood there, their weapons still raised, the tension thick in the air. After a long, silent moment, they lowered their guns, exchanging uneasy glances.
"What the hell was that?" the second suitman asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
The driver shook his head, his mask hiding whatever expression lay beneath. "I don't know. But whatever it was, we need to report this to Orwen. Now."
---
Back at the dimly lit room, Orwen continued to circle Alzees, his patience wearing thin as the man trembled in his chair. Alzees' mind raced, but he knew there was no way out now. He was cornered, trapped between his fear of Orwen and the consequences of what he had gotten involved with.
"I don't know who they were," Alzees finally whispered, his voice shaking. "I swear... I was just middleman. I didn't ask questions."
Orwen's eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he stared down at Alzees. The room was deathly quiet, the only sound the soft hum of the overhead light.
"You've been lying to me this whole time," Orwen said coldly. "You know exactly who they are."
Alzees swallowed hard, feeling the weight of his words hanging over him. His heart raced in his chest, the fear suffocating him.
Orwen leaned down, his face inches from Alzees'. "Tell me the truth. Or I'll make sure you regret ever being a part of this."
Alzees' resolve broke. "Okay, okay... I'll tell you everything." His voice was barely a whisper, but in that moment, he knew there was no more hiding.
As Alzees began to speak, the truth spilled out—names, places, details that could unravel everything. And Orwen listened, his smirk slowly returning, knowing that he had finally gotten what he wanted.
The game was just beginning.