In the speck of dawn, streaks of light flow through the slits between trees in the foggy forest.
Looming trees line the edges of a shadowy, narrow road—one seldom traveled, though this morning, rumbling engines echo as a convoy of cars speeds along the pavement.
At the front of the line, an armored Rolls-Royce glides with predatory ease, veering off onto a dirt path.
Tires crunch over brittle leaves and worn tracks, leading deeper into the wild.
The car slows to a stop at the edge of an abandoned factory, the bones rotting under the overgrown moss and tangled vines—a relic of a long-defunct charcoal business.
Behind the black Rolls Royce, three black Range Rovers growl to a stop.
From the Rolls-Royce, a man in his fifties, dressed in sleek formal wear, steps out with practiced poise. He circles to the passenger's side and opens the door.
As the man steps out, his familiar grim stare locks onto the waiting figure of Manager Cha—a tall, rigid man in his mid-forties.
Instinctively—almost subconsciously—Manager Cha bows, his gaze lowering to the polished black lace-up shoes gleaming at Ishmael's feet—so pristine, his own reflection stares faintly back at him.
"Mr. Marcola has been dealt with inside, Boss," he says, his tone clipped, professional.
A low hum escapes Ishmael's throat.
Without another word, Ishmael strides toward the massive, rusted factory, it's decaying structure now shrouded in creeping vines and wild overgrowth—the hollow shell steeped in menace.
Cha flicks his gaze at the entourage—hard-faced men in matching suits, their weapons concealed but the presence loud.
Half remain to guard the perimeter; the rest fall into formation behind their Boss.
The instant Ishmael steps through the threshold, a scream rips through the silence—a sound raw and jagged, echoing through the cavernous dark.
But Ishmael's pace doesn't falter. No flicker of surprise, no ripple of emotion mars his face. He walks steady, unhurried, as though the cries are no more than a breeze stirring leaves.
The men catch up as he enters a vast hall, the concrete floor littered with broken rods, shards of glass, and long-forgotten debris.
Ishmael halts. His eyes narrow on the source of the wailing.
From the shadows, his lips tilt into a shallow smirk.
He wears the face of an Adonis—carved with cruel perfection, honey-tanned skin, and hair slicked back like the somber night cascading down in silence.
Wickedly handsome, but cold. Brutal.
But Ishmael's good looks never defied the hellborn demeanor—that bled from every inch of him.
"Did he reveal the names?" Ishmael's gravelly, monotonous voice cuts through the thick air, directed at his right-hand man.
Zev freezes mid-motion, the spiked lash coiled in his grip. "Not yet," he replies.
Ishmael's face hardens. "Then why did you stop?" The words slice with quiet authority, enough to make Zev's spine stiffen.
"Apologies, Raka." He bows his head and steps aside—from the bloodied, naked man, bound to a torture chair lined with nails.
The lash whistles through the air. Then—crack. Flesh splits. Blood mists.
"N–no please—," the man's voice fractures into a hoarse, broken scream as Zev drives another strike into his broken body.
Ishmael lowers himself into a chair, placed neatly by Cha, his expression a mask of cold detachment. He watches as though spectating a theatre of cruelty, unmoved by the spectacle before him.
"Just... kill me, Raka," he pants, his face swollen beyond recognition, lips trembling against blood and spit.
Ishmael tilts his head, eyes unreadable. He does not answer. Only observes, his silence heavier than the blade flaying the man open before him.
The sunlight drips faintly through shattered panes, laying fractured gold across the ruin. Vines crawl across the walls, green life pressing against death. Yet inside, the air is choked with iron, smoke, and raw meat.
Marcola writhes, barely conscious, a ribonned husk of flesh.
Once a trusted brother in the trade—now nothing more than a carcass. Betrayal has made him meat for the lash.
Greed. Cowardice. Whatever drove him—hostages or hunger—none of it matters. He betrayed the family.
Ishmael rises, his shadow stretching long across the blood-streaked floor. His voice is low, final.
"Make sure his family burns with him."
Zev stiffens, then nods, eyes flicking to Marcola's broken frame—drifting on the edge of unconsciousness. "Understood."
---
Neva cradles warmth in her hands—a mug of hot chocolate, steam curling against her face.
A book rests open on her lap as she sinks deeper into her great armchair on the balcony. Cocooned snug in her fluffy quilt, she smiles softly, the autumn breeze teasing color into her cheeks.
She lifts the book she's already deep into reading—trying to lose herself in, though her thoughts slip away, drifting elsewhere.
Her mystery man.
Two days ago, she finally learned his name. Rhett.
He shows up once a week, tails her around like a shadow, only to vanish just as quickly.
Her lips pout in mild irritation.
Every now and then, when she steps out of her apartment, her eyes involuntarily flick toward his door.
Maybe he's busy with work?
Tsk. Talk about pursuing me, she scoffs inwardly.
She flicks her forehead with the edge of the book, realizing how absurd are her thoughts.
With a soft huff, she shuffles in her chair, curling deeper into her cozy nest. She brings the mug to her lips for another sip of hot chocolate, eyes drifting back to the page—when suddenly, the doorbell rings.
"Who could that be at this hour?" she mutters, glancing at the glowing screen of her phone resting on the side table. No messages. No missed calls.
She shrugs, placing the book aside.
She doesn't expect visitors anyway—ever.
Dragging her feet lazily across the floor, she reaches the entrance and twists the doorknob open.
Her gaze lifts—and her eyes widen instantly.
Standing at her doorstep is her mysterious man.
"Good evening, Angel," Rhett says, that sweet, familiar teasing smile playing on his lips.
Neva's face gleams before she can stop it—her heart swirling in an unexpected rush of excitement. But the sparkle vanishes just as quickly, her brows furrowing in mock annoyance, amused at her own reaction.
"What do you want?" she asks bluntly, folding her arms across her chest.
Rhett leans casually against the doorframe, that lazy grin never leaving his lips. "I want some sugar,"