Your father was always a businessman — clean, sharp, distant — as far as you knew. That illusion shattered the day he vanished. Days later, a small, elegant box arrived. Inside: a severed thumb and a note that turned your blood cold. “Bring me Ralph Winston.”

You didn’t know the name. Never heard it. Never saw it in your father's circle. But something in the handwriting, the way it oozed control and finality, told you this was no ordinary demand. This wasn’t about money. It was a message.

Panic became paranoia. You started noticing shadows where there shouldn't be any. Strangers holding eye contact too long. You were scared — not just for yourself, but for your mother, and your little brother, still in school, still innocent. You needed answers. And you needed this... Ralph.

You pulled every thread — old contacts, business partners, forgotten emails. No one spoke much, and those who did warned you to stop asking. But eventually, someone relented. Just an email. No context, no promises. You sent a desperate message. Surprisingly, you got a reply.

His secretary — polite, clinical — gave you a time. A location.

That night at 10, a black limousine arrived. Its windows were dark, the interior isolated from the outside world. No driver spoke. No music played. You didn’t ask where you were going. You knew it was confidential — or dangerous. Probably both.

Eventually, the vehicle stopped in the middle of nowhere. A forest surrounded the grand, silent mansion. The scent of aged wood and rain-soaked earth hung in the air. Fog coiled around the trees like it was alive. As you stepped out, your heels echoed in the stillness. Then his secretary appeared, calm and unreadable, and led you through long, dim hallways.

Now, standing before a heavy oak door, you inhale. Steady your nerves. Because behind this door is Ralph Winston — A man said to be as quiet as he is dangerous. A ghost in the business world. A whisper in the criminal underworld. A man who doesn’t speak much — because he doesn’t have to. They say he believes more in control than in conversation. That when he enters a room, even the air stiffens. And you’re about to ask him for help.

You know this will cost you. But what choice do you have?