Darkness.
The type that penetrated the bones, heavy and choking. Elias was having trouble breathing. A searing, pulsating ache pulsed at the base of his skull, the residue of whatever had struck him out.
He shifted, but something was hurting his wrists—tight, coarse rope wrapped around his wrists, binding his hands behind him. So were his ankles. The air was thick with the scent of old wood, dust, and gasoline.
Where am I
He blinked, his eyes settled on the faint light filtering through the slats of a metal storage room door. Rows of equipment stretched up in the dark room, throwing odd shadows against the walls.
Then—voices.
"He's still alive?"
"Yeah. The boss wants him alive."
"Tch. Lucky bastard. His team got slaughtered like pigs."
The words sent a cold dagger into Elias' gut.
His team.
His five-man team of raiders, the best the ASPD had to offer, had gained entry into the Grand Midnight Hotel, equipped with an emergency rescue mission. They were seasoned, well-trained—but it was not enough.
It was a massacre.
The memory came back like fire in his veins.
Just Moments Ago—The Breach.
"Move, move!"
Elias led. His men had navigated through the upper levels, sweeping through corridors with methodical precision.
It was all still. Too still.
Then—
A grenade tumbled out of the corner.
"GRENA—"
BOOM!
The hallway burst into fire and shrapnel, tearing through two of his men before they even had time to blink. Elias was knocked back, slamming into a marble wall. His ears were ringing, his vision blurry.
"SNIPER! MOVE—"
A lone gunshot.
The third member fell before finishing his sentence, a hole drilled clean through his skull.
And then the shadows.
Figures materialized out of the smoke, advancing with deadly precision. Black-suited mercenaries, not merely terrorists—killers.
His remaining two teammates returned fire, but it wasn't a firefight. It was an execution.
One was pinned to the wall with a combat knife thrust through the throat. The other had been shot in the head at close range.
Five entered. One survived.
Elias didn't have time to move before a rifle butt was slammed into his temple—and all was black.
Back to the Present—Captured.
Elias' breathing was labored.
He flexed his wrists against the rope, sensing how tightly the knots were stretched. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.
They're all dead.
He had been the lone survivor.
Outside, the hijacker guard shifted his position, inches from the door. His rifle dangled loosely over his shoulder, and his eyes seemed to wander.
"Boss says we keep him alive, do we?" The terrorist stood up and rolled his shoulders forward. "Don't see why we don't just shoot him in the head now."
Elias clenched his teeth, his rage seething in his stomach like a snake.
No. Not like that.
His men had perished in combat. If he was going to go down, he'd cut through these sons of bitches first.
His fingers brushed against something hard and cold—a loose nail, buried in his palm.
A slow, cunning smile spread across Elias' face. "You should have killed me when you could."