It was already ten o'clock in the evening, and an unsettling scene played out in the dim, cramped room. The air was heavy and stale, laced with the acrid scent of sweat and lingering tension. A group of large, unkempt men crowded around a single figure in their midst—James.
Bruised and battered, he slumped against the wall, his clothes disheveled, his face swollen and streaked with blood. The rough handling had left him in a state that bordered on unrecognizable, his usual pride and confidence nowhere to be seen. But what was most obvious was how James was practically covered with dried come all over his body.
The men around him looked equally drained, breathing heavily as they exchanged satisfied, dark glances. The room bore all the signs of a recent struggle—the overturned chair in the corner, the dim lighting casting long shadows that seemed to stretch menacingly toward James.
