The underground chamber was alive with low, sultry music and the faint scent of expensive cigars mixed with sweat and desire. Dim red lights cast across velvet furniture and polished marble floors. The usual sounds of pleasure had fallen eerily silent.
A man dressed in a fitted black suit walked in, supported by an ornate cane in his right hand. Behind him marched fifty armed men, their faces hardened and eyes cold. Their very presence sucked the air out of the room.
The guards who had once searched Santiago now trembled visibly, pressing themselves against the walls as if trying to disappear.
The man's steps were measured slowly as he was taking his time to walk. The cane tapping softly against the marble like a death knell.
His face was aged but commanding, with silver hair slicked back and eyes that seemed to pierce through anyone who dared meet them. He was known only as "The Emperor" in these circles — a title no one questioned.
