In the pale speck of dawn, streaks of gold pierce through the fog, spilling between the slits of towering trees. Ancient trunks loom along the edges of a shadowed, narrow road—one seldom travelled.
Yet this morning, fallen leaves whirl and sandgrains scatter as the asphalt trembles beneath the roaring rush of wheels—an oncoming convoy tearing through the mist, its echo rolling deep into the forest's hush.
A black armored Rolls-Royce leads the convoy deeper along the shadowed road, gliding with predatory ease until it reaches a splitting dirt path. Its tires crunch against the ground, while the vehicles behind carve the damp earth with rugged, snarling tracks.
The slick black steel glints under shards of flickering light that filter through the trees as the convoy slithers deeper into the wild.
One after another, the engines dim to a hush at the edge of an abandoned factory—
the bones rotting beneath overgrown moss and tangled vines, a forgotten relic of a long-dead charcoal trade.
A man in his fifties, dressed in sleek formal wear, steps out from the driver's side of the Rolls-Royce with measured poise.
He circles the car, his polished shoes crunching faintly over the grit, before stopping at the passenger's side and pulling the door open with practiced grace.
Sam Ishmael steps out, his familiar grim gaze settling on the waiting figure of Manager Cha—a tall, lean man in his fifties, posture rigid and expression unreadable.
Manager Cha bows deeply. "Mr. Marcola is being handled inside, Boss."
Ishmael hums in response.
As Manager Cha issues orders to the armed men in black suits,
Ishmael strides toward the rusted building—the decaying structure swallowed by creeping vines and wild overgrowth, its hollow shell steeped in quiet menace.
The instant Ishmael steps through the threshold, a scream tears through the silence—raw, jagged, and echoing through the cavernous dark.
But Ishmael's pace doesn't falter. No flicker of surprise, no ripple of emotion crosses his face; the cries nothing more than a breeze stirring dead leaves.
The sharp click of boots follows his own as Manager Cha and the guards close in behind him.
Ishmael halts as a vast hall unfolds around him—the concrete floor strewn with broken rods, shattered glass, and the remnants of a forgotten age.
His gaze fixes on the source of the wailing.
His face is veiled in shadow—until he steps into the thin spill of sunlight dripping through shattered panes, laying fractured gold across the ruin.
Then his features emerge with sculpted clarity: a strong, defined jaw, lucid lips, a tall, patrician nose, and eyes as dark and sharp as the hair that falls to his nape—
echoing the hellborn blackness that bleeds from every inch of him.
Sensing his presence, Ishmael's right-hand man, Zev, freezes mid-motion—
the spiked lash coiled in his grip. He glances up, then quickly straightens, bowing low in deference.
"Did he reveal the names?" Ishmael asks, his voice gravelly, flat—
devoid of heat or mercy.
"Not yet," Zev replies, lifting his head, his voice taut with restrained unease.
Ishmael's gaze hardens, his tone slicing through the stillness.
"Then why did you stop?"
"Apologies, Raka." Zev bows his head and steps aside—
revealing the bloodied, naked man bound to a torture chair lined with rusted nails, his skin a canvas of crimson and wounds.
"N-no… please—" The voice fractures into a hoarse, broken scream as the lash whistles through the air,
striking with a sharp crack—splitting flesh and misting blood into the air, thick with iron, smoke, and the stench of raw meat.
Ishmael lowers himself into the neat chair placed by Manager Cha, his expression an unbroken mask of cold detachment.
"Just… kill me, Raka…" the man named Marcola pants,
his face swollen beyond recognition, lips quivering through blood and spit.
Ishmael tilts his head slightly, his gaze unreadable as he reclines in the chair with unsettling ease.
Marcola writhes, barely conscious—a ribboned husk of flesh.
Once a trusted brother in the trade, now nothing more than a carcass. Betrayal has reduced him to meat for the lash.
Greed. Cowardice.
Whatever drove him—hostages, hunger—it doesn't matter. He betrayed the family.
As Zev continues the assault and Marcola's screams thin into ragged whimpers beneath the lash, Manager Cha feels his phone vibrate against his chest.
He slides it from the inner pocket of his jacket, the screen's pale blue glow washing over his face as he adjusts his glasses. Then, stepping closer to his boss, he leans down and whispers into Ishmael's ear.
As Manager Cha straightens.
Ishmael rises as well. Their shadows streak along against the blood-slick floor.
"Make sure his family burns with him."
Zev stiffens, then inclines his head. Ishmael turns away without another word,
the factory swallowing him as Manager Cha and the guards fall in behind like shadows trailing an eclipse.
---
The world lies hushed and bluish, save for the whisper of an autumn breeze swirling around the balcony. Strands of loose hair brush against the girl's rosy cheeks as she cradles a cup of hot chocolate, her lips curved in a contented smile while the rising steam curls softly against her face.
She's serene, cocooned in her large, cushioned armchair, wrapped in the tender warmth of a blanket.
Her dainty fingers reach for the book lying open on the coffee table, its pages fluttering faintly in the wind. Taking another sip of hot chocolate, she sinks into the words—building another world within them, chasing wonder and revelation between the lines.
She sighs, her gaze drifting toward the shadowed woods beyond the apartment building. Focus eludes her—her thoughts once again stray to the mystery man.
Couple of days ago, she'd finally learned his name.
Rhett. Though his surname still escapes her.
He appears once a week, tails her like a shadow—only to vanish just as quickly.
Her lips curve into a small pout of dissapointment.
Every now and then, when she steps out of her apartment, her eyes betray her, flicking toward his door.
Maybe he's just… busy with work?
"Tsk. Talk about pursuing me." The words slip out before she can stop them, and Neva immediately flicks her forehead with the edge of the book.
How absurd.
With a soft huff, she shuffles in her chair, curling deeper into her cozy little nest.
She raises the mug to her lips for another sip of hot chocolate, eyes gliding back to the page—when the doorbell rings, its chime echoing through the hush walls.
"Who could that be at this hour?" she murmurs.
With a small shrug, she sets the book and her cup of hot chocolate onto the coffee table with a gentle clink and rises to her feet.
The warmth of her cozy nest immediately tugs at her as she half-heartedly drags herself across the living room,
moving through the dim glow until she reaches the threshold.
She twists the knob and pulls the door open.
And there he stands—her mystery man.
"Good evening, Angel," Rhett greets, the sweet, familiar teasing smile tugging at his lips.
Neva blinks, warmth blooming across her cheeks at his sudden appearance. Her heart dances,
mirroring the happy swirl in her eyes that catch and hold his for this fleeting moment.
But she masks it perfectly, refusing to let it show, won't even admit it to her soul—
her brows knitting in feigned annoyance.
"What do you want here?" she asks, folding her arms across her chest.
Rhett leans against the doorframe, that lazy grin never leaving his lips. "I want some—sugar."