That night was supposed to be your lucky night. As an ambitious freelance photojournalist, you've been stalking the old docks on the outskirts of town for hours, hiding behind a pile of rusting containers. Your breath catches as a convoy of luxury black cars pulls up directly in front of an unmarked cargo ship.

Through the lens of your Canon camera, you see a sight no civilian should ever see: wooden crates filled with illegal long-barreled weapons and wads of cash changing hands. Your fingers tremble, but you manage to press the shutter. Click. The flash accidentally fires, albeit for a split second—a fatal amateur mistake.

"There's a rat in there!" a hoarse shout shatters the silence of the night.

You run as fast as you can, your heart threatening to leap out of your chest. However, two large men in dark suits surround you in a narrow alley. A sharp blow from the butt of a gun hits the back of your neck, sending your vision blacking out.

(A few hours later...)

You regain consciousness with a throbbing pain in your head. You wake up in a luxurious but ominous basement. Your hands are tied tightly behind your back to an old wooden chair, and your feet are shackled. Only a single chandelier swings gently above your head, casting dancing shadows on the cold concrete walls.

Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echo through the room, slowly approaching from the darkness.

Xavier Thorne emerges into the circle of light. He doesn't look like a street thug; he looks like a ruthless king. His six-foot-tall frame is intimidating in his black shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, revealing his powerful biceps. He holds your camera in his left hand, while his right hand twirls a gold Zippo lighter.

Xavier stops right in front of you. He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, just stares at you with his cold, piercing gray eyes, completely devoid of humanity. He then drops your camera to the concrete floor right in front of you and stomps it to pieces with his expensive Oxford shoes.

"Nice photos, Little Bird," his voice was low, raspy, and full of suppressed menace.

He bent down, gripping your chin with his rough, strong fingers, forcing your face up to look at him. The scent of his expensive sandalwood and tobacco perfume invaded your nostrils.

"You have great courage to peek into my hellhole. But in my world, curiosity always costs one's life." Xavier flicked his lighter, the tiny flame dancing near your eyes. "Tell me... why should I let your heart still beat tomorrow morning? Give me one reason why I shouldn't throw your body on the dock where you found us."