"Hugo, go check what's wrong," one of the thugs said, irritation creeping into his voice. "Probably some short circuit. This place is falling apart anyway."
Hugo grumbled but got to his feet, setting his bottle down. "Told you we should've fixed the wiring," he muttered as he headed for the door. He pulled it open and stepped into the narrow hallway outside.
The light overhead flickered once more.
Then went out.
"Hugo?" the thug inside called. "Don't take all night."
There was no answer.
Only a dull thud—heavy, wet, and final—followed by something scraping slowly across the floor.
Jonathan's wry smile returned, just a little wider this time.
"…Yeah," he said softly. "That's definitely him."
The thug grew cautious. He rose slowly, picked up his gun, and checked the magazine before racking the slide with a sharp click.
He moved slowly, every step measured, the barrel trained on the doorway.
"Don't mess with me, Hugo," he muttered. "This isn't funny."
The light flicked on.
What he saw made his stomach drop.
Hugo was pinned upright against the wall just outside the door, feet barely touching the floor. A thick iron rod had been driven straight through his open mouth and into the stone behind him, locking his head in place.
Blood ran down his chin in slow, uneven lines, dripping onto the floor. His eyes were wide, glassy, frozen in shock.
For half a second, the thug couldn't even breathe.
"…What the fuck?"
The thug took an uneasy step back, eyes fixed on the body pinned outside the door. His grip tightened on the gun.
Then a calm voice cut through the room.
"Jonathan," it said mildly, "care to explain why this keeps happening? Did you get yourself into trouble again?"
Jonathan blinked. The fear snapped away, replaced by relief. He looked up—and there Daniel was, standing beside him, expression faintly annoyed, as if he'd arrived late to a tedious appointment.
"Oh thank God," Jonathan breathed. "I told them. I really told them."
The thug spun toward Daniel, rage flaring as panic set in. "Who the fuck are you?" he shouted, raising the gun.
Daniel didn't even look at him.
"You know," Daniel said conversationally, eyes still on Jonathan, "your kidnapping caused me a great deal of inconvenience. If you hadn't been grabbed, I wouldn't have had to rush back like this."
That was when the thug realized he was being ignored.
His finger slammed the trigger.
The gun went off with a deafening crack.
The bullet never reached Daniel.
It stopped midair—less than a foot from his head—caught as if the space around it had turned solid. The thug's eyes widened, his breath hitching as he stared at the frozen round.
Daniel finally turned to look at him.
"…Rude,"
The bullet dropped straight down and clinked against the concrete floor.
The thug stumbled back. "W-what the hell—"
Daniel moved.
There was no blur, no dramatic windup. One moment he stood beside Jonathan, the next he was in front of the thug.
Daniel caught the man by the throat with one hand and lifted him off the ground as if he weighed nothing.
"P–please… spare me," the thug choked, legs kicking uselessly as he clawed at Daniel's wrist, trying to pry himself free.
Daniel tilted his head, genuinely considering the plea. "Spare you?" he asked calmly. "Why should I?"
His grip tightened just enough to make the man gasp.
"I'm sure you've heard those same words plenty of times," Daniel continued, voice even. "From people you scared. People you cornered. People who begged because they had nothing left."
The thug's eyes watered as panic fully set in.
"Did you ever let them go?" Daniel asked quietly.
There was no answer—only frantic wheezing.
Daniel sighed, as if disappointed.
Crack.
The sound was sharp and final.
The thug's body went limp instantly.
***
After some time, footsteps echoed from the hallway.
A group of men returned—five of them—spreading out instinctively, with a big man at the front. Broad shoulders, thick neck, fists wrapped in worn cloth like a boxer's. The kind of man who led because he'd broken enough people to earn it.
They stopped the moment they saw the doorway.
Hugo was still there.
Pinned to the wall outside, feet dangling slightly off the floor, a metal rod driven clean through his mouth and into the concrete behind him. Blood had dried in dark streaks down his chin and chest. His eyes were wide and empty.
The room went silent.
"…What the hell," one of the men muttered.
The big man stared for a long second, then stepped closer, confirming what he already knew. Dead. Very dead.
He turned his head slowly toward the storage room.
That's when he noticed the second body on the floor inside.
And then he saw him.
A man sat casually on a chair near the back, one leg crossed over the other, calmly drinking from a glass as if he were in a tavern instead of a slaughterhouse.
"You did this?" the boss asked, his voice rough, disbelief cutting through his anger as he stared at the bodies.
Daniel tilted his head slightly. As he lifted his face, half of it was wrapped in swirling dark energy. From within it burned a smile shaped of blue flame, and a single blue eye shone through the darkness—cold, alien, and alive.
Every man who saw it flinched.
Then the lights went out and the door closed.
Screams filled the room—short, panicked, cut off one by one. There was the sound of bodies hitting the floor, of something moving too fast to follow, of terror choking the air.
Two minutes later, the door opened again.
Daniel stepped out calmly, adjusting his coat as if he'd merely finished a conversation. The corridor was silent now, the screams gone, leaving only the faint hum of electricity returning to life.
Behind him, the room was awash with blood. The thugs lay dead—some smashed into the ceiling, bodies broken and hanging at impossible angles.
*****
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