The villa's great hall was unusually silent that night.
Don Khan sat in his chair, his cigar smoke curling in lazy patterns under the chandelier. His fingers tapped the armrest in a slow, menacing rhythm. He was waiting.
The heavy doors slammed open.
Scott stumbled in, bruised, a smear of blood on his temple. His coat was torn, his face pale from exhaustion. Yet his eyes burned with urgency.
"Boss," he gasped, bowing quickly, his voice hoarse. "We failed. Kalisa… she's stronger than we thought. Lyth is down. The men—" His voice cracked, shame seeping through every syllable. "We lost them. All of them."
A shadow crossed Don Khan's expression. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at Scott as if his gaze alone could crush him. "You mean to tell me," Khan growled, his voice low and gravelly, "that a girl and her misfits wiped out my best men? And Lyth—" He paused, smoke spilling from his nostrils. "—is useless to me now?"
