The air inside the warehouse was thick—choking, suffocating, pressing against the skin like a living thing. A single dim bulb swayed from the ceiling, its flickering light casting jagged shadows against the stained walls. The room reeked of iron and sweat, the unmistakable stench of suffering.
A scream tore through the silence.
It wasn't a scream of anger. No. It was something far worse. The kind that echoed in the bones, that carried the weight of desperation. The kind that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise because you knew—knew without a doubt—that whoever was screaming wasn't just in pain.
They were dying.
Bound by rusted chains, the man struggled. His wrists, raw and bleeding, strained against the unforgiving metal. His feet—impaled by long, jagged nails—twitched weakly, every movement sending fresh rivers of blood cascading onto the floor. His breath came in ragged gasps, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with horror.
He wasn't alone.
Across the room, a figure lounged on an old leather couch, one leg crossed over the other. The scent of burning tobacco curled through the air as he took a slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a single watching eye in the darkness.
The man on the floor whimpered.
The figure exhaled, the smoke curling between them like a ghostly veil. Then, he spoke.
"A family, huh?"
His voice was smooth—too smooth. Almost amused.
The broken man flinched. His lips trembled, trying to form words, but all that escaped was a weak, choking sound.
"You're begging for your family?" The figure let out a low chuckle, deep and rich, like the sound of velvet wrapped around steel.
The man bound in chains began to sob. His body, broken and battered, convulsed with terror.
The figure leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, the smirk never leaving his face.
"Tell me something," he murmured. "When those girls screamed, did you listen?"
Silence.
The air grew heavier.
The bound man's breathing turned frantic, erratic.
A drop of sweat slid down his temple, mixing with the blood streaked across his face.
"They came to Italy for fun," the voice continued, almost conversational. "Young. Free. Laughing."
He tapped the ash from his cigar onto the floor. The ember fell beside the puddle of blood, a cruel contrast between warmth and death.
"Some of them were pregnant."
A strangled noise came from the man on the floor.
"Carrying life," the figure mused, tilting his head. "A new family."
A sharp intake of breath. The chains rattled as the broken man struggled, his shoulders shaking with silent pleas.
"And what did you do?"
The figure's tone darkened. His smirk disappeared.
The man gasped, shaking his head violently. "I—I—"
The figure stood.
The sound of his footsteps was slow, deliberate. A predator taking its time.
He stopped just inches away, towering over the trembling, bloodied mess before him.
"You want mercy?" he asked softly.
The man sobbed harder. "Please... my wife—my son—they need me, please—"
A blade flicked through the air.
Cold steel pressed against his throat.
The trembling intensified.
"Mercy?" the voice whispered, pressing the blade just enough for a thin line of blood to appear.
A moment of silence.
Then—
A slow chuckle.
"You think you deserve it?"
A flick of the wrist.
A scream.
The blade sank into flesh.
A choked gurgle.
The man collapsed, his body spasming before going still. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the concrete floor.
The figure stepped back, wiping the blade clean with a handkerchief.
The scent of death was thick now.
Unbothered, he pulled out his phone and dialed a number.
The line clicked. A woman's voice answered.
"Sir?"
"Bella," he said, adjusting the cuffs of his suit. "Handle the video problem."
A pause. Then a soft chuckle.
"Consider it done."
The call ended.
A door creaked open behind him.
A man in a sharp black suit stood waiting. "Sir, Metteo wants to meet with you. Should we go to the office or home?"
The figure exhaled, tossing the bloodied handkerchief onto the corpse.
"The office."
The man nodded and stepped aside.
As he walked past, the cold night air greeted him like an old friend. A sleek black car waited, the driver already holding the door open.
Without a word, he slid inside.
The city of shadow stretched before them, glittering with lights, alive with secrets.
The night was far from over.
And the real game was only beginning.