The warehouse was silent, only the faint hum of equipment and the distant wail of sirens breaking the tension. Berlin had kept Rio and the others occupied, moving with calm precision. No one noticed him slipping toward Paris.

She sat on the stretcher, wrists and ankles tightly taped, the heavy restraint of duct tape holding her in place. Her heart pounded like a drum in her chest. “What… what are you doing?” she whispered, but Berlin only offered a cold smile.

With steady hands, he pushed the stretcher toward the exit. Paris could do nothing — every movement restricted, every escape impossible. The stretcher creaked as it rolled over the stairs, her body swaying slightly with each jolt.

Outside, police lights flashed, blue and red painting the walls. Officers waited, weapons raised, ready. Paris felt the chill of the night, the sirens, and the sting of helpless rage all at once.

The stretcher came to a halt in front of the officers. They lifted her carefully, guiding her into the tent where she would be processed. “Don’t worry, we’re just going to ask a few questions,” one said, calm, as she remained strapped to the stretcher.

Above, Rio barreled down the stairs, finally realizing what had happened. “Paris!” he shouted, panic cracking his voice. But the door slammed shut before he could reach her.

Through the glass, he saw only the police tent, and the figure of Paris being taken away. His chest tightened, a choking mix of fear and helplessness. The girl he cared for, the one who made his heart race, was gone — under the control of the police, far from him.

He stood frozen, fists clenched, breathing hard. And deep inside, he knew one thing with crystal clarity: He would do everything to get her back.