FLASHBACK;
The metallic scent of blood and gunpowder filled the air—thick and suffocating. The single bulb that hung from the basement ceiling flickered, casting shadows across the damp concrete floor. In the center of the room, a man sat tied to a chair, his face bloodied and swollen. His breaths came in short, panicked bursts, the fear in his eyes almost animalistic.
Drex Blackwood—known to the underworld as Rapture—paced slowly in front of him, his polished shoes tapping softly against the floor. The cold smile on his lips never reached his eyes. "You brought fake products," he said, his tone sharp and calm at once, like a blade coated in sugar.
The man stuttered, "P-please, I didn't—"
"You lied!" Rapture's voice boomed, echoing off the walls. Then, with a low, cruel chuckle, he leaned closer. "You thought—" another chuckle "—you thought you could trick me?"
Silence followed, the kind that carried dread in its wake.
