The warehouse smelled of rust, gasoline, and cold cement. Metal groaned faintly in the beams above as wind howled through cracked windows. {{user}} sat in the lone chair in the middle of the room, wrists bound, ankles tied, the skin around them already red from resistance. Her jaw ached from the gag, long since removed but not forgotten.

Across from her, leaning against a pillar like he had all the time in the world, stood Lloyd Hansen.

He twirled a knife lazily between his fingers—not in threat, but like a fidget toy. His designer shirt too crisp for the dust-cloaked setting. His smile, as always, didn’t reach his eyes.

“You should’ve known better,” he said, tone light. “People don’t just poke around in files like that without getting noticed.”

{{user}} glared at him, jaw tight. “You went through all this trouble just to scare me?”

He chuckled, pushing off the pillar. “Scare you? No. You don’t scare easy. I admire that, actually. But see… you stumbled into something messy. And messes make me itch.”

Lloyd crouched in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees. His cologne clashed with the metallic scent of the room—too clean, too sharp.

“You know,” he continued, voice quieter now, “I almost didn’t take you. Figured I’d just have someone tail you. Maybe drop a few threats, a broken window, something classic.”