Just a street down from where Mark had been hauled into the dark van, a lone figure stood motionless behind the flickering neon sign of “Suzy’s 24-Hour Parlor.” The pink and blue light cast intermittent shadows across their face, but the darkness of the narrow alley—wedged between the parlor and a run-down laundromat with its broken “WASH & DRY” sign—kept them concealed.

Shrouded in shadows, they watched the two men slam the van doors shut with mechanical precision. The engine growled to life, and the vehicle disappeared into the maze of late-night traffic.

No sound escaped their lips. No expression crossed their features. Just sharp, calculating eyes beneath a dark hood, recording every detail.

Two men. Professional. Clean extraction. No witnesses.

The figure’s fingers flexed once—a barely perceptible movement—before they backed deeper into the alley’s embrace and vanished like smoke.

****

The next morning.

Somewhere along the industrial outskirts of the city, where progress had come to die, a complex of rust-stained silos stood sentinel beside the decaying skeleton of what had once been the Meridian Steel Factory. Between the towering metal cylinders and crumbling brick walls, morning light struggled to penetrate the perpetual gloom.

Inside the factory’s main floor, a single beam of sunlight pierced through the spider-web cracks of a dusty skylight thirty feet above. The golden ray cut through dancing motes of dust and debris, barely reaching the center of the cavernous space where a lone wooden chair sat under a flickering overhead bulb.

On it sat Mark.

Bound. Slumped. Unconscious.

His back pressed against the chair’s coarse wooden backing, thick rope wound tight across his chest and around his ankles with methodical precision. A faint trail of dried blood had seeped through his shirt from his previous injury, creating a dark stain that spread like spilled wine. The air hung thick with cold dampness and carried the acrid smell of rust, concrete mold, and something else—something metallic that made the back of the throat burn.

Four men occupied the building.

Two—the raven-haired one with predatory green eyes and the ginger with the easy smile that never quite reached his pale blue eyes—stood just outside near a side door that hung askew on corroded hinges. They puffed on hand-rolled cigarettes, the smoke curling upward in lazy spirals. The ginger one, Zed, tapped his steel-toed boot against a chunk of fallen concrete in an absent rhythm, while his companion watched the perimeter with the alertness of a hunting cat.

The other two remained inside with Mark.

Jason—six-foot-two of disciplined menace with a close-cropped military cut, icy blue eyes that seemed to see through flesh and bone, and an expression carved from Arctic stone—had just ended a brief call on a burner phone that looked like a toy in his massive hands.

“Yes. Package secured. Proceeding with extraction protocol.”

His voice carried the clipped efficiency of someone accustomed to giving orders that meant life or death. He snapped the phone shut with finality and slipped it back into his tactical pants.

Jason wore a form-fitting black long-sleeved shirt that emphasized the corded muscle of his arms, military-issue dark green cargo pants with too many pockets, and black combat boots with steel reinforcement that had seen more than their share of violence. Everything about him screamed discipline, control, and the kind of brutal efficiency that came from marching through more than one theater of war.

His companion—similarly tall but leaner, standing maybe six-foot-four with tousled dark blond hair that somehow managed to look both casual and calculated, and sharp honey-colored eyes that missed nothing—leaned against a graffitied wall with deceptive casualness. His arms were crossed, but one could see the coiled tension in his shoulders, the way his weight was distributed on the balls of his feet. Ready to move. Ready to kill.

Jason made a subtle gesture—just a slight movement of his chin.

Without a word, the honey-eyed man pushed off from the wall with fluid grace, pulled a sealed medical kit from a black tactical bag, and extracted a sterile syringe. He moved with the practiced efficiency of someone who’d done this many times before. The needle found a vein in Mark’s arm on the first try, and he drew half a tube of dark blood with clinical precision.

“Sample secured,” he said, sealing the vial and sliding it into a temperature-controlled medical container. His voice carried a slight accent—maybe from neighboring countries like Costava or Perta. “I’ll deliver this to the lab.”

Jason nodded once, a sharp movement of acknowledgment.

The blond man shouldered his kit and headed for a back exit, his footsteps eerily silent on the debris-strewn floor.

Jason turned toward the side door and beckoned with two fingers.

Zed and the raven-haired man—who looked barely twenty-five but moved with the controlled grace of a predator twice his age—stubbed out their cigarettes and entered. The younger one, whose name was Matt, picked up a dented metal bucket from the corner. Steam rose from its surface in the cold air.

Splash.

The water hit Mark’s face like a wall of liquid ice, shocking his nervous system back to consciousness.

“Ghhh—h-hah!!”

Mark choked and sputtered, his back arching involuntarily as every nerve ending screamed in protest. His eyes snapped open, rolling wildly as his brain struggled to process the shift from unconsciousness to harsh reality. For several disorienting seconds, the shapes around him warped and shifted like phantoms in a fever dream.

Where am I? What happened? The van… the men…

Memory crashed back like a freight train.

But soon, his vision cleared enough to see.

Three men. None familiar, but all wrong in ways that made his skin crawl.

His body was a symphony of pain—muscles cramped from hours of immobility, joints stiff with cold, and the persistent throb of his back injury pulsing in rhythm with his racing heartbeat. The wet shirt clung to his skin like a second layer of misery, but he forced himself to ignore the discomfort.

His mind was already working, listing details, searching for weaknesses.

These weren’t Ferraro’s men—too clean, too precise, too professional. Ferraro’s boys were street thugs with expensive suits and cheap cologne, all swagger and brutality but little finesse.

They weren’t Suarez’s crew either—no distinctive snake tattoos at the nape of the neck, no twitchy, paranoid energy that came from too much of their own product.

Third party? Government? Another house? Or something worse?

The questions burned through his mind, but Mark kept his expression carefully neutral. He’d learned long ago that information was a weapon, and right now, these bastards had all the ammunition.

Instead, he simply stared back at them, letting anger, fear, and suspicion war across his features in a carefully controlled display.

Zed leaned forward slightly, his grin widening into something genuinely amused.

“Kid’s got a death stare,” he mused, his accent coloring the words with dark humor. “Like a rabid dog sizing up his next bite.”

But Jason remained coldly silent, his pale eyes locked on Mark with the intensity of a scientist studying a particularly interesting specimen. It wasn’t disgust Mark saw there. It wasn’t even malice, which somehow would have been more comforting.

It was calculation. Pure, clinical assessment.

And somehow, that unsettled Mark more than outright hostility would have.

He had seen Chad look at victims before—with indifference, maybe even annoyance, like they were obstacles to be removed rather than people to be feared. But Jason’s stare was different.

His gaze felt like someone evaluating a test subject, deciding which buttons to push, which pressure points would yield the most useful results.

For the first time in a long while, Mark felt his skin crawl with genuine unease.

He shifted against his bonds, testing their strength without being obvious about it. The rope was military-grade, tied with knots that spoke of professional training.

****

“What’s your name?”

Finally, Jason opened his stern lips, voice carrying the sharp edge of winter wind across frozen ground.

Mark blinked water from his lashes, the sting still sharp against his skin. His shoulders screamed in protest, arms stiff from being bound for what felt like hours but could have been longer. The taste of iron and stale fear coated his tongue.

Play it cool. Buy time. Learn what you can.

He tilted his head with practiced arrogance, letting a crooked grin stretch across his cracked lips despite the circumstances.

“Your mom.”

The words hung in the air like a challenge.

A beat passed.

Zed threw back his head and hooted with genuine delight, slapping his thigh hard enough to echo in the cavernous space.

“Damn, he’s got jokes! I like this kid already!”

Jason’s face didn’t so much as twitch. His expression remained carved from granite as he asked again, same tone, same inflection, as if Mark’s mockery had been nothing more than wind through the rafters.

“What’s your name?”

Persistent bastard.

Mark clicked his tongue and managed a shrug with what little mobility the ropes allowed.

“Santa Claus. You been good this year?”

This time, Matt—the raven-haired one—snorted, trying to muffle his laugh behind a closed fist. His green eyes danced with amusement despite the situation.

Zed leaned against a dusty steel beam, clearly entertained by the whole exchange. “Christ, Jason. Where’d you find this comedian? Kid’s got more balls than sense.”

Jason, however, remained perfectly still. But Mark was watching carefully now, cataloging micro-expressions, reading body language the way Chad had taught him to read marks.

There. The subtle twitch in his jaw. The way his gloved fingers just curled slightly—into a tightening fist. Veins standing out on his wrists. Forearms tensing.

He’s getting pissed. Good. Angry people make mistakes.

Still, Jason maintained his rhythm, tossing out questions with mechanical precision.

“Where were you going that night?”

“I was headed to a romantic dinner with my parole officer. Candlelight, wine, the whole nine yards.”

“Who was the girl?”

“That girl? She’s my fairy godmother. Grants wishes and everything. You want her number?”

“Who else survived the incident?”

“Survivors? Only my dignity, and that’s been dead for years.”

“Are you working with Ferraro now?”

“Ferraro? Never heard of him. Is he single?”

Each answer met with escalating levels of sarcastic deflection, each one carefully chosen to reveal nothing while pushing buttons.

Zed laughed every time, clearly enjoying the circus atmosphere Mark was creating. “Kid’s got balls the size of church bells,” he wheezed between chuckles. “I gotta admit, Jason, he’s really pushing your limits here.”

Keep laughing, red. Maybe you’ll get careless.

Jason didn’t break character outwardly, but Mark could see the telltale signs of mounting frustration. The cords in his neck were beginning to show, his breathing had become more controlled—the kind of control that came from reining in violence.

That was when Zed’s laughter died, his expression shifting to something more serious, almost paternal.

“Hey, kid,” he said, his accent thickening with genuine concern. “If you’re half as smart as you are funny, you’ll quit testing Jason’s patience. He’s not one for second chances, and trust me—once he snaps, it’s not pretty. I’ve seen him work.”

Trying to save me? Or just tired of cleaning up messes?

Mark’s grin widened, but his eyes stayed cold and calculating.

“Why not? Maybe I want to see what Mr. Freeze looks like when he snaps. Hell, I bet I could take him.” He paused for effect, letting his gaze sweep across all three men. “No—better—I bet I could take all of you. One by one or all at once. Your choice.”

Matt snorted again, but there was less humor in it now. “You’ve got guts saying that while tied up like a Christmas turkey.”

Zed let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Brave or suicidal. Can’t tell which yet, but I’m leaning toward suicidal.”

Let them think I’m just a cocky street punk. Underestimation is a weapon.

Jason stared for a long moment, his pale eyes boring into Mark’s skull as if trying to read his thoughts. Then, finally, he ran a gloved hand through his close-cropped hair slowly, deliberately, as if physically reigning something dangerous back into its cage.

A long sigh escaped him—the sound of a man reaching the end of his patience.

When he looked down at Mark again, that clinical assessment had returned, cold and cutting and utterly devoid of human warmth.

“Then let’s try.”

A pause that stretched like a taut wire.

“Simple terms. If you beat me in fair combat, you walk out that door. No pursuit, no consequences. But if you lose…” His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, somehow making it more menacing. “I beat you within an inch of your life, and then you answer every single question without that smart mouth of yours.”

Shit. He’s calling my bluff.

Mark forced his smirk to widen, even as his mind raced through calculations.

“Bring it on.”

But inside, his thoughts were spiraling into damage control mode.

Shit, shit, shit… Okay, assess the situation. One flickering overhead light—could be used for distraction or darkness. No visible windows except that skylight thirty feet up—useless. Steel beams throughout—potential weapons or climbing aids. Rusty piping along the walls—could be torn loose. One cracked vent near the ceiling—too small for escape but might provide air flow patterns. The main door behind Jason—guarded, obviously. Side door where red and black came from—probably locked or leads to more trouble.

Even if I miraculously beat this guy, they wouldn’t just let me walk out. But I need time. A distraction. Information. Something to work with.

Mark’s eyes narrowed as he reassessed his captors with new understanding.

These definitely aren’t mafia thugs. Look at their stances—balanced, ready. The way they move—economical, precise. The way they carry themselves—disciplined, hierarchical. Military background, maybe special forces. Not the chaotic, crude brutality of Chad’s crew or the flashy violence of organized crime families.

They’re trained killers molded into obedience, probably with more confirmed kills between them than I’ve got years on this earth.

But they’re also following orders, which means someone else is pulling the strings. Someone who wants me alive enough to go through this elaborate charade instead of just putting a bullet in my head.

That’s something. Not much, but something.

Jason moved with deliberate slowness, approaching Mark’s chair with the measured gait of a predator who knew his prey couldn’t escape. He began working on the ropes around Mark’s chest, his movements efficient and practiced.

The thick hemp fell away in carefully controlled loops.

But before moving to Mark’s wrists, Jason paused, his face inches from Mark’s ear.

“Try anything stupid,” he said flatly, his voice carrying the absolute certainty of a man who’d followed through on such threats before, “and I’ll snap your arm so cleanly the bone will poke through the skin. We clear?”

Crystal, you psychotic bastard.

“As mud,” Mark replied with false cheer.

The ropes around his wrists came off with the same methodical precision.

Mark flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the painful rush of blood returning to his extremities. Pins and needles shot up his arms like tiny lightning bolts. He rotated his wrists carefully, testing his range of motion while keeping his expression neutral.

Circulation’s coming back. Good. Grip strength will follow in a minute or two.

He smiled again, but this time the expression was different—sharper, more predatory. The mask of cocky street punk was slipping, revealing glimpses of something darker underneath.

Let’s dance, you bastard. Let’s see what the hell you want from me.

And let’s see if you’re as good as you think you are.

The game was about to begin, and Mark intended to survive it—whatever the cost.