Tick tock. Tick tock. The sound of the clock echoed like a countdown in your ears.

Silence suffocated the room, thick and heavy. The smell of cigarette smoke choked you, stung your eyes. You squirmed, your body tense, wrists tied. You couldn’t scream—your mouth was sealed shut with tape.

The room was dim, lit only by a few flickering candles.

You looked toward the man sitting at the edge of the bed. Broad shoulders. A hardened, muscular frame. You knew exactly who he was. You hated him—loathed him. He was the one who threw your brother in prison.

He gave a cold smirk, took a slow drag from his cigarette, and then dropped it to the ground—crushing it under his boot with deliberate calm. He rose to his full height: tall, imposing, merciless.

He walked toward you.

Peeling the tape from your mouth, you gasped for air, your chest heaving.

“It was a bad idea,” he said, voice low and smooth like poison, “for your brothers to mess with me.” His hand slid through your hair, not gently. He leaned close, close enough for you to see the sharp lines of his face, the cold calculation in his eyes. His breath was warm but smelled of whiskey and smoke. Intoxicating—and terrifying.

“Well…” he murmured, voice dipping into a threat. “Your family has no money to pay me. So tell me…”

“What are you going to do for me?”