Sunderland, England — 12:36 AM
Underground Facility — Location Unmarked
The stale air inside the basement was thick with the stench of blood, perfume, and iron. Beneath a luxurious estate, hidden under layers of concrete and encrypted silence, lay a sprawling underworld prison—one that didn't house criminals, but victims.Caged like animals, dozens of young girls huddled in tight cells—eyes hollow, lips cracked, wrists bruised from steel shackles. Some were screaming. Some were crying. Some… had already gone silent, too numb to process the evil they had been sold into.Rows of heavy bars sectioned the basement like a butcher's market. Some girls were drugged, barely conscious, their heads lolling against the damp walls as if sleep were their only mercy. Some were still dressed in the clothes they were taken in. Others were stripped and forced into silken robes that barely clung to their shivering bodies.Above the cages, faint music thumped from the floor above, masked in velvet and wine—where men in black coats and foreign tongues laughed and drank, waiting for their 'entertainment' to be delivered. Businessmen. Ministers. Oil tycoons. Drug lords. VIP clients with sick desires and unlimited money.And the merchandise?Human souls.In a corner of the basement, standing beside a security monitor and a large crate of confiscated belongings, a sharply dressed man took a call. His shoes gleamed. His eyes did not.He pressed a finger to his earpiece, speaking low but proud."Boss, the last van's arrived. Thirty more. Young ones. Fresh batches from universities and international airports. We've already processed them and moved some to upper levels. The clients are… satisfied."A pause. The smirk on his face stretched wider."Deals are getting signed even faster tonight. Every room's in use. Every pocket is opening."The voice on the other end was a slow, chilling whisper of control.Rex.Reyaan Malhotra.He didn't need to shout to command. His voice carried a deadly confidence."Ensure no girl leaves without a client mark. Keep the ones with spirit. They sell higher. And the loud ones? Drug them until they forget how to speak."
"Yes, sir," the man replied with a short bow, even though Rex wasn't physically present. "No interference yet. Police don't suspect a thing. Our runners in Scotland, Swindon, Leeds—all reporting clean drops. And no losses. Not one."There was silence for a moment.Then Rex spoke again, softly, like a purr before a lion's bite. "This is why my empire thrives. Because I deal in currency more powerful than gold… desperation and desire. Keep the flames hot. Let them burn slowly."He ended the call with a tap.
Meanwhile, above, the so-called party raged on.Red lights. Veiled corridors. Silhouettes of girls being dragged to rooms where music drowned out their screams. Contracts signed over skin, deals paid in flesh. Clients were handed 'cards' with a girl's photo and background—like items on a menu. One man licked his lips as he scanned through the photos."She's got fire in her eyes," he laughed, picking a girl barely eighteen. "Perfect. I love breaking them."In the center of the upper lounge, a tall man in a golden mask sipped wine and observed it all. An under-boss—one of Rex's state handlers. Every region in England had one. Each handled a part of the network, but all reported back to one name: Rex. The Marked Devil. The one who controls every thread without ever showing his face.
The man chuckled, watching another girl disappear into a room."And the world still thinks this is a 'missing person's case'…"
Meanwhile, in Swindon, far from the devil's lair, Kiaan's hands clenched around the file folder.He didn't know where yet. But he could feel it—A web was tightening.
And this time, the spider was still watching.