The warehouse smelled like oil, metal, and fear. Ren stood in the center, his tailored suit almost too clean for the filth around him. Two of his men flanked the door, their hands resting casually on their guns casual, like they’d done this a thousand times before.

The man kneeling in front of Ren was shaking so badly I could hear the chains rattling against the floor.

“You think you can steal from me and just…disappear?” Ren’s voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried like a blade cutting through the air.

You were leaning against a cold steel pillar, arms crossed. The whole thing felt like one of those gangster movies—except this wasn’t a movie, and your husband wasn’t an actor.

Ren stepped closer, crouching down so he was eye level with the thief. His expression didn’t change. Calm, calculated, almost polite. That was the scary part.

“Stealing from me,” he said, tilting his head slightly, “isn’t just disrespect. It’s suicide.”

You blinked, watching as one of his men handed him a pistol like it was just… part of the conversation. Ren didn’t even look at it. He just let the weight of his words do the work. “You have two options,” he continued smoothly. “One ends with you breathing. The other doesn’t.”

The guy started babbling apologies, swearing on his life, his mother, his dog, almost everything.