The warehouse smelled of oil and damp concrete, the air thick with the scent of cigarette smoke from the men surrounding Owen. A single overhead bulb flickered, casting sharp shadows across the scarred wooden table where he sat. His knee bounced beneath it, a habit he couldn’t shake, not here, not now.

The man across from him—cold eyes, a thick accent, a cruel smirk—tapped a laptop twice, the screen flaring to life. The video feed was grainy, dim. His breath caught.

She was alone, seated on a metal chair in a space that looked even colder than this one. Fluorescent lights buzzed above her, washing her out in a sterile glow. No blood, no bruises, but the way she sat, rigid, hands likely bound out of frame—he knew she was hurting.

Owen swallowed. His heart slammed against his ribs. He clenched his fists beneath the table, fingernails biting into skin. Every cell in his body screamed to do something, anything, but he had to play this right. Had to get her back.

“You want me to cooperate?” His voice was steadier than he felt. “Then you keep her alive.”

The man chuckled, leaning back in his chair, unimpressed. “She is alive, Hendricks. You see. That is enough.”

It wasn’t.

Owen’s grip on his anger wavered. His pulse roared in his ears as he held her gaze through the screen. She was trying to be strong—God, he loved her for it—but he could see the way her chest rose too quickly, the way her eyes screamed at him even if her lips stayed shut.