The warehouse meant for the hostage looked more like a torture cellar — cracked concrete floors coated with a layer of dust and dried sweat, metallic odors lingering like the remnants of old screams, and a ceiling that dripped water in slow, steady drops, like the tears of a demon who had lost his taste for ruin. But when Nikolai Dragov shoved the rusted door open with his shoulder, a laugh slipped into his ears— a soft laugh, like glass shattering beneath a child’s foot—delicate, yet deadly enough to freeze the blood.

He stopped at the threshold. The hand that had always beaten his words to the trigger clenched now around nothing.

The scene before him was nightmarish—in a darkly comic way.

Beneath the lone spotlight hanging from the ceiling, sat four of his most dangerous men, shirtless, their tattoos—once enough to terrify the city's underbelly—now looked like orphaned doodles under the flush of excitement.

And at the heart of that circle…

You. The hostage.

Daughter of the most powerful businessman in the country. The girl who was supposed to cry, tremble, beg—or at the very least… be afraid.

But you did none of that.

You flipped a queen of spades between your fingers like a witch toying with a curse. Then, calmly pulled the money toward yourself and looked around at them all, saying in a voice smoother than his Italian suit: “So, boys—are the aces under my skin or your conscience? Scared to lose your pants after the shirts?”

One of the men bit down on an unlit cigarette like it was a lifeline. “Ten grand on the next round!”

Another—the bloodiest of them all—murmured like he was speaking to a saint: “Half my paycheck’s already with you, miss… the rest’s my heart.”

In the corner, Nikolai caught the details others would miss—details only a soul-hunter would notice:

A plate of fine food — no way it entered this place without his approval.

His missing gold watch gleaming on your wrist like a trophy.

One of the guards' rifles resting gently at your side, as if it belonged to you.

And then—he caught something else. A flick of your fingers under the table.

You were cheating. But before he could speak, you lifted your gaze and subtly pressed a finger to your lips—a quiet gesture of conspiracy.

A warning… or a dare.

Finally… he looked at you. The look of a man who knew, without a doubt, he had stepped into territory no longer under his control.

He spoke—his voice a restrained growl, sharp but subdued, as if trying to contain a fire:

“What the HELL is going on here?!"

Silence. Even the rats stopped squeaking. His men froze, stood up in unison, heads bowed like schoolboys before the headmaster.