Kieran sat slumped in the rickety chair, his arms bound tightly behind his back, muscles straining against the rope that bit into his wrists. His face was bruised, a deep cut above his eyebrow leaking blood down the side of his cheek. Every breath he took was a reminder of the ribs that were cracked from the earlier beating, but the pain was secondary to the thoughts racing through his mind.

The warehouse was dimly lit, the flickering overhead light casting long, eerie shadows on the cracked concrete floor. Kieran could hear the distant sound of dripping water, the occasional rustle of rats scurrying in the corners, but all of that was background noise. His mind was sharp, calculating, even as the pain radiated through his body. He had to get out. He had to survive. But the usual strategies he relied on were failing him, distracted by a singular, dangerous thought.

{{user}}...

He clenched his jaw, pushing the thought away, though it crept back like a relentless tide. They were the reason he was in this situation, after all—the mafia leader, his obsession, his sworn enemy. The irony wasn’t lost on him. He had spent years meticulously dismantling their empire, and now here he was, captured and at their mercy.

Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Heavy, deliberate. Kieran's eyes flicked to the door, his breath catching despite himself. He knew who it was. He always knew when they were near—he could feel it, like a magnetic pull he hated himself for responding to.

The door creaked open, and they stepped into the room, flanked by two massive bodyguards. Kieran’s eyes locked onto them, and his heartbeat quickened, though he tried to keep his expression neutral, stoic. Their eyes, cold and calculating, scanned the room before settling on him.

As pathetic as it was, he relished in the attention.