“Where are you taking me?” My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “What do you want?”
Silence.
The driver’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror—cold, empty, professional.
These aren’t random criminals.
They’re too organized, too calm.
This was planned.
The text message flashes through my mind.Your father sends his regards.
“This is about my father, isn’t it?” I lean forward as much as the zip tie allows. “Whatever he did, whatever he owes, I’m not involved. I haven’t seen him in months?—”
“I saidshut up.” The man beside me finally turns to look at me, and even through the ski mask, I can feel the weight of his stare. “You’ll get your answers soon enough.”
The drive feels endless. We leave the well-lit streets of the college district, heading into industrial areas I’ve never seen before.
Abandoned factories loom like skeletal giants against the night sky.
Graffiti covers every surface, and broken glass glitters on the cracked pavement like scattered diamonds.
Finally, the SUV pulls into a warehouse complex.
The building looks like it’s been dead for decades—windows boarded up, walls crumbling, weeds pushing through the concrete.
The perfect place to make someone disappear.
Terror claws at my throat, but I force it down. I need to stay calm. I need to think.
The men drag me out of the vehicle. My legs nearly buckle, but I lock my knees, refusing to show weakness.
They march me toward a rusted metal door, one on each side of me like prison guards.
The door screeches open, revealing darkness so complete it feels solid.
Inside, the warehouse smells of decay and motor oil. My footsteps echo off unseen walls.
Somewhere in the distance, water drips with metronomic precision.
One of the men flicks on a battery-powered lantern, and weak yellow light spills across the concrete floor.
That’s when I see him.
He’s standing in the center of the space, hands clasped behind his back, perfectly still.
Even in the dim light, he’s striking—tall and powerfully built, with short blond hair styled with casual precision.
He wears an expensive charcoal suit that probably costs more than my entire semester’s tuition, the fabric molded to his broad shoulders and trim waist. But it’s his face that steals my breath.
He’s older, maybe in his forties, with sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw shadowed with stubble.
His features are almost aristocratic—the kind of face you’d see in old paintings of Russian nobility.
But his eyes… God, his eyes.
They’re the coldest shade of green I’ve ever seen, like ice over deep water, and they’re fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.
