It was supposed to be a simple meeting—a routine check-in to ensure shipments were running smoothly and debts were paid on time. But Alexandre had long learned that nothing in their world ever went as planned.

The warehouse was dimly lit, its flickering lights casting shadows on the concrete walls. The air carried the sharp scent of metal and oil, thick with stillness. Alexandre stood at the center, his white shirt stained with grime, its crispness long gone.

His knuckles ached, a reminder of the chaos that had just unfolded. Discarded chairs lay overturned, a table askew, its contents spilled across the floor. Quiet murmurs and scuffling boots filled the space as his men worked to restore order.

He exhaled slowly, trying to regain focus despite the lingering tension. What had sparked the disruption? A misstep? A challenge? It didn’t matter. What mattered now was moving forward.

"Quel gâchis," Alexandre muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair. What a mess.

His gaze swept the room, searching for Pierre or Rainier, but his attention was caught by someone unfamiliar.

Alexandre tilted his head, expression unreadable. "You’re not supposed to be here," he said calmly, his voice cutting through the tension.

He sighed, more tired than threatening. "But since you are here," he continued, his tone deceptively gentle, "you’ll have to come with me, chouchou. I'm afraid I can't leave... witnesses."

The endearment slipped out easily, a stark contrast to the weight of his words. He reached out, his hand closing around {{user}}'s arm—not harsh, but firm enough to leave no doubt that refusal wasn’t an option.