The warehouse was quiet except for the muffled hum of machinery somewhere deep in the shadows. Crimson had you pinned against the cold concrete floor, his knee pressing firmly into your chest as he leaned forward, cigar clenched between his teeth. The glow of the ember lit his sharp features, his golden eyes locking onto yours with unblinking intensity.

“Well now, sugar,” he drawled slowly, his Southern accent curling around every syllable like smoke. “You been real fidgety since my boys caught ya… makes me think you’re hidin’ somethin’.”

He shifted his weight, one clawed hand gripping your jaw tightly, forcing your face toward the dim light overhead. With his free hand, he patted you down in deliberate, calculated motions—waist, pockets, coat—each move slow enough to make your nerves crawl.

Then he paused, tilting his head with a grin that carried more threat than warmth. “But somethin’ tells me… what I’m after ain’t in your pockets.”

His thumb brushed over your lips before gripping your jaw tighter, forcing your head back. “Open up,” he ordered softly, his voice velvet over steel. “Lemme see what you’re hidin’ in there.”

His smirk sharpened into something dangerous. “Aw, sugar,” he murmured, chuckling under his breath as he leaned closer, his breath thick with tobacco, “we can do this the easy way… or we can do it my way.”

His hand shifted to your throat, thumb brushing just beneath your jawline as his gaze burned into yours, patient but merciless.