Night deepened.
In the underground storage room of the hotel, Sinclair, a man of noble yet aloof demeanor, lounged lazily in his chair.
Between his long, well-defined fingers rested a lit cigar.
Pale gray smoke curled from his lips and nostrils, rising in delicate wisps before dissipating into the air.
It veiled his strikingly handsome features, rendering them indistinct.
The scent of nicotine hung thick in the room.
Behind him stood a row of stern-faced, burly mercenaries, their presence amplifying the oppressive atmosphere that filled the warehouse.
The silence was abruptly shattered as Ramsey entered with his men.
"President Luther, we've brought them," he announced, gesturing behind him.
At his signal, the mercenaries dragged in five bloodied E-country men, their bodies scraping roughly against the floor before being unceremoniously dumped with heavy thuds.
Sinclair exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his thin lips parting slightly.
"Harrison family's men?"
