Llewellyn moved cautiously through the narrow alley, the echo of his own footsteps bouncing off the brick walls. Something felt off, he knew it instinctively, but curiosity, or perhaps stubbornness, kept him moving forward. A faint shift in shadows made him pause, hand hovering near the revolver at his hip.

He did not hear them approach until it was too late. Figures emerged from the darkness, blocking the way out. Llewellyn’s heart hammered, but he did not freeze; he squared his shoulders, forcing his voice steady. “I don’t want trouble.”

The men laughed, a sound that made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end. One stepped closer, and Llewellyn grabbed a nearby pipe, swinging it instinctively. It clanged against the brick, but it was hardly a deterrent. Another shoved him roughly, and he stumbled, catching himself against the cold wall.

He holds the pipe tighter now, knuckles white, scanning desperately for any exit, but the alley offered none. Their faces were cruel, merciless. His chest ached as adrenaline surged through him, mingled with a raw, sharp fear he hadn’t felt in years.

A sudden blow to the side sent him sprawling to the ground. Llewellyn tried to push up, to run, but strong hands grabbed him, jerking him back. He did not scream he could not afford to, but the tightness in his throat and the sting in his side spoke of his vulnerability.

He did everything he could to resist as they dragged him into a dim, abandoned warehouse. Llewellyn’s wrists were bound, the ropes biting into his skin. He struggled, twisted in the chair they forced him into, but it held him fast. His breath came in harsh, uneven gasps.

He holds onto the thought that someone, anyone might come for him, that this is not the end. Fear thrummed through him like a second heartbeat, but beneath it, a stubborn ember of defiance remained. He would survive this. He had to.