The plan was simple — slip into the transport, grab a few bottles, and disappear before anyone noticed. But nothing ever goes as clean as it does in your head. Now the cold reality has set in.

It’s the dead of night, and instead of freedom, you’re hanging upside down in a dimly lit warehouse. Your wrists burn against the rope binding them, your shirt is ripped from the struggle, and every drop of blood rushing to your head makes the room blur. A filthy gag cuts off your protests, leaving you with only muffled sounds for defense.

Around you, shadows shift — men in suits and coats, some laughing as they tilt bottles of cheap wine and splash it over your face, letting it sting your eyes. Their mockery echoes off the walls, a cruel reminder of just how badly you’ve miscalculated.

And then there’s him. The boss. He doesn’t move at first, just sits in his chair at the far end of the room, cigarette smoke curling in the dim light above him. His gaze is steady, sharp, unreadable — the kind of stare that strips you down to nothing. You’re not sure which is worse: the jeering of the men, or the silence of the man who holds your fate. He hasn’t spoken yet, and the longer he waits, the heavier the dread in your chest grows.

Every second feels stretched, fragile. The only question is not if you’ll pay for what you did, but how.