Meanwhile, in the bowels beneath the steel skeleton of the warehouse...
The air reeked of rust, ghosts, and regret. Chains clinked like wind chimes for the damned, and the hollow screams of pain echoed through the cavernous space. A figure groaned beneath a filthy burlap sack, bound in old rags—his breath raspy, voice deep, guttural. A sound born of a crushed soul still clinging to survival.
Demitri was chained to a reinforced chair—one arm dislocated, the other twitching in spasms. His once-flawless white T-shirt was shredded, stained crimson in too many places to count. Blood dripped in slow intervals onto the cracked stone floor.
He was alive.
Barely.
Michael Rain stood before him, still in that suit—jacket off, sleeves rolled, top button undone, cigarette burning low between his fingers.
Beside him, Anya Volkov—hair like a midnight flame, gloves stained with iodine and something darker.
Former Graver mafia medic. Now rogue.
She wasn't here for healing.
She was here for answers. And vengeance.
Demitri (groaning):
"I should've killed you in Dubrovnik."
Michael (dryly):
"You tried. You missed."
Anya crouched beside Demitri. Her gloved fingers pressed against his fractured ribs—surgical, precise.
Demitri screamed.
Anya (softly):
"That's your eighth and ninth ribs pressing into your lungs. If I push a little more… you'll drown in your own breath. Ever suffocated on air, Demitri?"
Michael (leaning in):
"Tell me who ordered the hit. Or we play doctor till sunrise."
Demitri (spits blood):
"She's dead… You can't undo it."
Michael (growls):
"She's not the only one who dies tonight."
Anya:
"Let me do it my way. Bones break. Nerves beg."
She opened her bag—scalpels, adrenaline, pliers, clamps. She wasn't improvising. She was orchestrating.
Her hands, normally steady—trembled.
Michael:
"You're thinking about her again."
Anya (quietly):
"I want my daughter back."
Beat.
Michael:
"Graver has her?"
Anya (nods):
"Somewhere. Maybe in Prague. Maybe here. They said she was special. Trainable."
Demitri (chuckles):
"She's probably slicing someone's throat right now, Anya. Loyalty begins with blood. You know that."
Michael kicks the chair—hard.
Michael:
"Enough."
He grabs Demitri's chin, forcing eye contact.
Michael:
"You're going to tell me who pulled the trigger… and where they're keeping her. If you don't…"
Anya (coldly):
"We start with the eyes."
Suddenly, Michael's phone buzzes.
He pulls it out. Screen: UNKNOWN CALLER.
A heartbeat. He answers.
Distorted voice:
"If you want the girl alive, come alone. Midnight. Dock 47."
Click.
Michael's face changes. From wrath to calculation.
Anya (concerned):
"Who was that?"
Michael (pockets phone):
"Someone who just changed the game."
He glanced at Anya, then back at Demitri.
"We'll finish this later."
Michael stands near a metal locker, removing the blood-stained gloves he wore earlier. He straps a tactical pistol holster under his arm and slips on a black coat over his suit. Silent. Focused. Intent.
Anya Volkov watches from the opposite wall, her arms crossed, her expression unreadable—but her eyes betray her anxiety.
ANYA:
You're not going to Dock 47 alone.
MICHAEL (without looking):
Yes, I am.
ANYA (snaps):
That wasn't a suggestion, Michael. We're in this together.
MICHAEL (tight, sharp):
No, we're not. This is my war. You have your own reasons, your own ghosts. I don't need more bodies piling up on my conscience.
ANYA (stepping forward):
You think I care about your guilt? My daughter's out there, Michael! And that call—was the closest we've come to a lead!
MICHAEL (turns to her, stern):
Exactly. Which is why I can't risk it. You're emotional. You're compromised.
ANYA (bitter):
And you're not?
MICHAEL (grits his teeth):
I'm used to losing everything.
ANYA:
Don't act like you're the only one who lost something.
They lock eyes. An unspoken storm surging between them. Past betrayals. Shared pain. Buried affection.
ANYA (softens just slightly):
Don't push me out.
MICHAEL (quietly):
I'm not. I'm protecting what's left of this mission. And what's left of you.
Beat. Then—
ANYA (cold again):
Fine. Go. But don't expect to come back with answers. They're not going to give you anything… unless it's a bullet.
MICHAEL (walking to the exit):
I'll take my chances.
They emerge into the night, footsteps echoing on gravel. The air is still, thick with tension. Michael walks ahead, nearing the archway that leads to the road. Anya lingers behind.
Then—
BOOM!!!
A deafening EXPLOSION tears through the ground behind them. A shockwave blasts outward, throwing Anya and Michael to the ground. Metal groans. Flames burst from the entrance like a dragon's breath.
Michael scrambles up, his coat torn, eyes wide as he sees the underground vault erupt into a fireball. Debris rains down. Smoke clouds the stars.
Anya (coughing):
Demitri…
MICHAEL (grimly):
He's gone. Along with every damn lead.
ANYA (stumbling forward):
No. No! He was the only one who knew where she was!
She drops to her knees near the blaze, eyes wet with smoke and heartbreak.
MICHAEL (tight-jawed, seething):
Someone planted explosives. Covered their tracks. Killed the one man who could talk.
ANYA (raging):
They knew we were here! You said we were being watched. And now... they've taken everything.
MICHAEL (still staring at the flames):
No. Not everything.
He pulls out his phone. The unknown number is still there in his call log.
MICHAEL:
Dock 47. 2 AM
He looks to Anya—now on her feet, her face bathed in orange firelight, fury and pain radiating off her.
MICHAEL (softly):
You were right. This was never just my war.
ANYA (gritted):
Then let's burn them back
SOMEWHERE IN A SECRET LOCATION LAYS A LITTLE GIRL
The room smells of urine, blood, and iron. A cold, flickering fluorescent bulb swings overhead, casting shifting shadows across a rusted steel floor etched with dried footprints… and claw marks.
Cages. Dozens of them.
Inside, girls and boys—some barely teens, others no older than twenty—huddle like animals. All thin, dirt-smeared, trembling. Their eyes—wide, hollow, cracked—watch the door with the same instinct mice watch the sky.
CELL #19 – ALEXA VOLKOV – AGE 14.
Her once-black hair is matted and tangled like wire. Her lips cracked. Her ribs are visible beneath her bruised, sunken skin. She has blood under her fingernails. A scab on her cheek. A brand—a burning Graver insignia—on her left collarbone.
She hasn't spoken in days.
Only whispered to herself.
ALEXA (softly, to herself):
Mama's coming. Mama's coming. Mama said if I counted to a million, she'd be here...
Outside her cage, two Graver enforcers in latex gloves drag a girl by her hair toward a steel chair with restraints. The girl screams until her throat gives out—then just sobs.
VOICE (O.S.):
"Number Nineteen. Volkov."
Alexa jerks up. Her eyes widen.
ALEXA (barely audible):
No…
The cell door clangs open.
Two men enter. Big. Silent. One grabs her by the arm. The other shoves a cloth into her mouth before she can scream. They drag her out of the cell like a piece of meat.
She kicks. Bites. Her toenails snap. She claws one of their faces—leaving a scratch that only earns her a boot to the ribs.
As she's dragged down the corridor, the other captives look away. Some cover their ears. A few whisper prayers. No one helps.
They know where she's going.
THE TRAINING ROOM.
A white-tiled room. Bleach-smelling. Blood-stained.
GRAVER TRAINER (masked, bored):
Daughter of the traitor, huh? You'll be fun to break.
He sets down his tray—scalpels, tongue clamps, shock collars.
She sobs behind the gag.
TRAINER (to guards):
Strip her. Cold shower. Then the drills. If she survives 3 months, she goes to Dubai. If not, back to the flesh pen.
ALEXA'S POV – THROUGH TEARS:
The lights above spin. The floor disappears. Her mind spirals into static.
All she remembers is her mother's voice:
"I will find you. I swear on your name."
Then the first shock hits her neck.
And the world goes white with pain
MEANWHILE....
The glittering skyline of Rushmoore pulses in the distance—sharp neon and jagged glass like a wound that never healed.
Lord Augustine Rain stands with his back straight, posture regal, a glass of 30-year-old scotch in his weathered hand. His gaze is distant, unreadable.
The gala hums below—a false paradise of wine, pearls, and politics.
Suddenly, his burner phone buzzes in his jacket pocket. The sound is jarring in the stillness.
He checks the screen: NO CALLER ID.
He answers, no hesitation.
DISTORTED VOICE (O.S.):
"Dock 47. 2 AM. Come alone. Bring your shadow with you."
Click.
His jaw tenses. He doesn't blink.
Behind him, Marabel, wrapped in silk and silent jealousy, steps onto the balcony, barefoot and holding a wine glass like it's the only thing keeping her steady.
MARABEL (dryly):Another secret meeting? Should I pretend not to notice... again?
AUGUSTINE (coldly):Pretending is all you're good at, Marabel.
He walks past her.
MARABEL (bitter):Go then. Chase ghosts in the dark. Like always.
He pauses—only for a second—then disappears inside, leaving the glass railing cold and lonely.
Marabel watches him vanish, then downs the rest of her wine.
The glass slips from her fingers and shatters.
2 AM IN THE INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT RUSHMOORE
A black rental cab winds through the sleeping metal heart of the city. Container yards, barbed wire, rusted signage. The kind of place where bodies are buried, not found.
Inside, Michael Rain stares out the window, jaw tight, the light from passing lamps painting stripes across his face like prison bars.
Anya Volkov sits beside him—silent, unreadable. Her leather gloves are stained with something that isn't quite rust.
ANYA:You don't even know if this is a trap.
MICHAEL:It is a trap. That's why I'm going.
She sighs and leans back.
ANYA (quietly):You always run into fire like it'll forgive you.
He glances at her. A flicker of something behind his eyes.
MICHAEL:Fire's cleaner than regret.
They don't speak after that.
The taxi halts near a locked industrial gate. Beyond it: DOCK 47 — a skeleton of what used to be, cloaked in darkness.
Michael steps out. So does Anya.
The wind howls low. Somewhere, a metal sign bangs faintly.
ON THE DIFFERENT SIDE OF DOCK 47
Augustine's shoes echo against wet concrete as he enters a different side of the dock. His overcoat billows behind him like a shadow.
He checks his vintage pocket watch: 1:59 AM.
Then—
He sees a red flare flickering near a stacked shipping container.
He stops.
Somewhere beyond his view, on the opposite end—
Michael and Anya approach slowly, eyes scanning every shadow.
ANYA (tense):This place smells like ambush.
MICHAEL (grins):Good. Means I'm in the right place.
Their boots crunch on gravel.
Suddenly, the wind dies.
And everything is silent.
Like the city is holding its breath.
The air hangs thick with salty fog and the low hum of distant ships. Shadows stretch long across the rusted metal piers. Flickering lamps cast a dim, uneasy glow.
From Michael & Anya's POV:
Michael's breath is steady but sharp. He grips Anya's hand tighter as they move cautiously between stacked crates, eyes scanning every shadow.
Anya (whispering):"We just need to find to find her and get out."
Michael nods, eyes fixed ahead. His jaw tightens.
Suddenly, a metallic click echoes off the concrete.
Michael halts. Anya freezes.
From behind a container, a silhouette steps forward, gun raised.
Voice (cold, commanding):"Stop. Hands where I can see 'em."
Michael's heart thuds — he and Anya glance at each other, then back to the barrel aimed at them.
Michael's mouth opens, a curse barely escaping:
Michael & Anya (in unison):"Fuck."
From Lord Augustine's POV:
Lord Augustine strides down the opposite pier, his coat billowing in the mist. His eyes flicker with cold calculation. The night is his ally.
His footsteps echo loud against the docks. As he rounds the last crate, a dark figure steps out — gun trained on him without hesitation.
Voice (same cold tone):"Hold it right there."
Augustine's eyes narrow, his lips curl just enough to speak, a mirthless curse slipping out:
Lord Augustine:"Fuck."
The gunman's eyes flick between the two groups — Michael & Anya on one side, Augustine on the other — all caught in the crossfire of shadows and tension.
Voice (gruff):"You're all coming with me. The boss wants a word."