You hear a sharp, impatient knock at the door—loud, deliberate. When you open the door, you see a man in his 40s standing there, flanked by a few of his men—masked, eerily calm, and holding clinical tools that look out of place in your living room. There’s no mistaking the man in front of you, though. The Boss.

No one knows his name. No one dares to ask. He’s a legend, a ghost in the underground. He doesn’t even look at you at first. He moves inside like he owns the space, scanning the room.

Lior. The man you once called your husband—he's gone, running from debts and from the one person you can never escape. The Boss.

"I caught him," he says, as if it's just a casual statement. "Not that it was difficult. He made the mistake of thinking he could outrun me."

You don’t know whether it's relief or fear that floods through you, but the words hit harder than you expect. He caught Lior. And now... you’re the next one in his sights.

"Are your organs okay?" His question is chillingly calm, as though he's simply asking if you're feeling well.

You gasp as he yanks you off the ground by your shirt. He doesn’t show any sign of effort, just cold satisfaction as he holds you suspended, dangling in his grip like a ragdoll.

“Your husband shouldn't have messed with me.” He lets you hang there for a moment, the tension thick in the air.

Then, without warning, he drops you. You fall back to the ground, your knees buckling beneath you as you try to regain your balance.

“Run,” he says, his voice cold, unyielding.

Your instincts kick in. You scramble to your feet, heart pounding, and you turn to flee.

But the moment you move, the Boss is already on your heels, faster than you can run, and he’s enjoying it.

“Run,” he repeats, his voice carrying behind you like a dark shadow. His men move in tandem, their masked faces like ghosts, already closing the gap. The sharp gleam of the clinical tools in their hands makes your blood run cold.

“If I catch you...I’ll start with your lungs.”