Same was done to many others too, it seemed. The sacks drawn over their heads with practiced efficiency, rough hands leading them like cattle. Footsteps echoed like drumbeats on polished floor, steady, unyielding.
Nikolai's own satisfaction pressed beneath his calm exterior. The coarse sack over his head couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips, the faint flush rising in his cheeks, the anticipation that made his pulse thrum like a predator scenting prey. Dangerous pheromones seeped off him, subtle yet potent, stirring instinct even in the suffocating dark.
Did these employees wear those masks… already expecting this outcome? Who knew.
Lucien fought like a cornered animal when they dragged him. Curses spat through clenched teeth, boots scraping across concrete, shoulders jerking hard enough to burn the skin raw under the ropes. "Fuck off! Get your hands off me—" His voice tore out ragged, chest heaving with every breath, sweat stinging his eyes beneath the suffocating sack. A strange thick smell wafted through his nostrils, making his throat go dry and agitating him even more.
Unbeknownst to the snarling man, Nikolai soaked in every sound. Each growl, each sharp intake of breath, every clash of resistance — music to his ears. Oh, how he adored a fighter. So much more entertaining to break little by little.
The group was hauled far, farther than Lucien could keep track of, deeper into what felt like the bowels of the earth. The air grew colder, dampness creeping into lungs; no windows, no hint of the outside. Underground, then. A place even police wouldn't sniff out.
Whimpers rose from Mark and the others, soft protests, muffled cries. The occasional sob cracked the air, sharp and pathetic, echoing off stone walls. No outbursts, no defiance — not like Lucien's. Their fear stank, bitter and cloying, pooling heavy in the stale air.
Forced to their knees, hands and forearms lashed tight in skin-blistering knots, the group landed hard against concrete. The cold floor pressed into bone. This was it — their destination. Wherever the fuck "it" was.
Lucien thrashed against the binds, teeth grit so hard his jaw screamed. "Mark! Liam!" he shouted hoarsely, twisting against the ropes. The sack rasped rough over his skin, damp with sweat. "What the fuck is going on— answer me!" His voice cracked, torn raw with fury and confusion.
Only muffled sobs answered. Not a word. Not a denial. Just weak, broken sounds. It pissed him off even more.
"…You said these guys were your coworkers, right?" Nikolai's voice slid in from the side, low, deliberate. Calm as ever, tilting his head so Lucien couldn't mistake his presence. "I don't know about you… but it looks like your friends have been lying about what they actually do."
Lucien's head snapped toward the voice, sack rasping over his hair. "Can you shut up?" he spat, voice low, venom sharp. His wrists flexed, straining, veins bulging under pale skin. "Christ, you're annoying." Every breath came harsh, ragged, chest burning from effort.
"You seem to know a hell of a lot, yeah?" Lucien ground out, not bothering to hide the scorn. "Why don't you spit it out instead of playing your little mind games?" His words were sharp as knives, but his heart drummed uneasy beneath his ribs. Something in the blond's tone twisted his gut, heavy and wrong.
But no explanations came. No neat answers. Just silence — calculated, deliberate silence — letting Lucien's thoughts spiral. Robbery? Murder? Something worse? He didn't know, and that gnawed more than the ropes.
Before Lucien could press again, another voice sliced the air.
"It seems the rat nest has grown larger than last time."
Feminine. Smooth, airy, yet carrying the chill of a blade against the throat. A voice that made silence fall heavier.
Lucien stilled. Breathing harsh, sweat clinging the sack to his face.
Then it came again.
"I find it… amusing, almost. That instead of paying back what was owed… you choose to squander what you could steal."
Soft yet audible clicks rang out — heels against concrete. A steady glide from one end of the room to the other. Each step measured, deliberate. She was circling, evaluating, like a teacher strolling past rows of disobedient students. Or a predator appraising which throat to bite first.
Until the sound stopped. Right in front of Lucien and Nikolai.
The sack ripped free in one violent jerk. Lucien sucked in air, blinking hard, smoky lavender-grey eyes snapping wide. His vision swam before sharpening — and what he saw froze the blood in his veins.
They were in a cavernous underground hall, stone walls reinforced with steel beams. Floodlights blazed from high fixtures, throwing long shadows. Masked personnel lined the perimeter, three times the number stationed at the casino. Each armed — guns slung over shoulders, whips coiled at hips, gleaming knives catching the light.
It wasn't a meeting. It was an execution ground dressed up as a stage.
The woman stood tall, a striking figure. Long brown hair cascaded down her waist in sleek waves, her tailored suit hugging a frame that spoke of elegance and ruthlessness alike. Hazel eyes glinted with disdain as she flicked a strand of hair over her shoulder, gaze sweeping the captives like filth tracked in on her spotless floor.
Lucien's gut churned.
Beside him, Nikolai's sack was torn away as well. Silver eyes adjusted instantly, flicking across the room, drinking it all in.
The woman took a step closer, hips swaying with controlled confidence. Her lips curved, humorless. "Are you two affiliated with these people?" she asked, tone so casual it chilled. She gestured lazily toward them, and a guard pressed a pistol into her waiting hand.
"I don't know these fucking people," Nikolai snapped, irritation bleeding through. The ropes dug deep into his skin, veins and muscles pulsing, testing. He could rip them if he shifted — but not without getting shredded by bullets first. "I was just flirting with this guy over here," he tilted his chin toward Lucien, silver eyes gleaming with mischief, "…before you people decided I was part of this circus. Apparently he's just their coworker, clueless about the mess they dragged him into."
To anyone else, it might've sounded like defense. But the damage was done — the words tethered Lucien to the accused. Thin as the connection was, it was enough.
The woman barely reacted. A small nod. Then her gaze shifted back to the others. Mark and the group trembled, sacks pulled free to reveal pale faces twisted with terror. One had already pissed himself, the stench mixing with sweat and fear.
Lucien's jaw worked, chest heaving. "I can talk for myself—" he bit out, voice rough, trembling with fury. "I know them. But I'm not part of this shit."
His glare cut to the blond at his side, eyes narrowing. "You were actually flirting with me?" His laugh cracked, short and humorless. "Of course. Fucking typical."
The woman rolled her eyes at their exchange, bored. "Sounds reasonable," she drawled. "But we can't take your word for it." She cocked the pistol, steel sliding home with a click.
"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Nikolai snarled, jaw tight.
Lucien ground his teeth, rage simmering under his skin. He shifted against the ropes, pale eyes burning holes into the woman. "You don't even know your targets, do you? Just lumping us in. You're sloppy. I'm not part of this. So let me go." His words cut sharp, controlled, like shattered glass pressed into skin.
The woman's gaze slid past him, dismissive. "Let's remind ourselves," she said, voice carrying through the hall, "why we are here tonight."
Her hand flicked. A guard tossed a stack of papers at the kneeling men. The sheets scattered across the concrete floor, sliding to a stop at Lucien's knees. He blinked down at them. Receipts. Stamped names. Amounts. Locations.
Her voice coiled around them, smooth and cruel. "The Yulan Enterprise entrusted you with funds. You signed an agreement. But instead of honoring it… you spent it." Her eyes narrowed, disgust dripping from each word. "On prostitutes. Gambling. Backroom deals with rival dealers. You thought we wouldn't know? Pathetic."
Lucien's gaze locked onto the papers. Among other names, there were those that he recognised, Mark. Liam. Their names, clear as ink on flesh. His chest clenched, disbelief spiking through him. "What the fuck, Mark, Liam…" he whispered, voice hollow. "All this time…?"
Bang!
The crack of a gunshot split the air.
Lucien flinched, heart hammering. His ears rang as a body hit the ground with a heavy, final thud.
The woman exhaled slowly, calm as if she'd merely swatted a fly. She reloaded with a fluid click, the sound echoing. "Would anyone like to explain how we will recover our money? Or perhaps… offer an alternative method of repayment?"
Bang.
Another body crumpled, blood spreading dark across concrete.
Lucien's pulse thundered, every nerve on fire. His breath came shallow, his jaw locked so tight it ached. This was no bluff. This was slaughter dressed as business.
Fuck. He was nothing but collateral in this shitshow.