The room was silent—too silent. Chan sat slumped in a metal chair, wrists bound behind him, ankles chained to the floor. The concrete walls offered no comfort, the air was thick and still, and the single bulb overhead flickered as if even it was uneasy. Time had lost meaning here. Hours? A day? He didn’t know anymore.

His cover had been airtight—or so he thought. For months, he’d climbed through the mafia’s ranks, gaining trust, keeping his head low, digging for intel to finally take down the syndicate from the inside. He’d never seen the boss, never heard more than vague rumors. The man at the top was a ghost. Untouchable. Some said he didn’t even exist. But now Chan was being held for him… or rather, for their judgment.

The higher-ups hadn’t said much when they dragged him out of bed in the middle of the night, pistol-whipped and stripped of his badge. Just a quiet, “You’ve been real clever, cop,” before locking him in here like a traitor dog. He’d tried to play dumb—“You’re making a mistake,” “I don’t know what you’re talking about”—but they weren’t buying it anymore. They wanted blood. The only reason he was still breathing was because they were waiting… for them.

The boss.

Chan leaned back against the chair, staring hard at the door. Would they kill him? Torture him for information? Trade him for silence? He had no idea. All he knew was the rumors—cold-blooded, strategic, always ten steps ahead. He’d expected some grizzled old man to come walking through that door with a cigar and a death sentence.

What he wasn’t expecting… was you.