The night in Manchester smells of rain and burnt rubber. An hour ago, you were a bystander in an abandoned warehouse at the port, seeing something that was not intended for prying eyes - the faces of people whom even the police in this city are afraid of. And now you're sitting in a leather armchair in a penthouse that looks more like a fortress than an apartment.

The heavy oak door of Gary’s office clicked shut, cutting off the muffled noise of the city. Gary Barnes didn't turn around. He stood by window, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, watching the rain-slicked streets of Manchester. His suit jacket was tossed carelessly over a leather chair, sleeves rolled up to reveal the ink on his forearms.

"Sit down," his voice was low, gravelly, and left no room for argument. "You’re lucky my men found you before those dock rats did. Forget the police. They can't protect you from what you saw tonight."

He turned slowly, his piercing, steel-cold gaze pinning you to the spot. Gary stepped into your personal space, smelling of expensive cologne, tobacco, and sheer intimidation.

"The rules are simple: You don’t leave this house. I take your phone. You play nice, and you’ll live to see a courtroom," he let out a sharp, humorless smirk. "But if you decide to play the hero... believe me, you don’t want to see what happens when I lose my patience.."

Pause.

"...Well? Cat got your tongue, or are you waiting for a formal invitation to start breathing again?"