Aria came back to herself in pieces.
Pain came first.
A dull, spreading ache bloomed at the back of her head, pulsing in slow, nauseating waves. It felt distant at first, like it belonged to someone else, then closer, sharper, until she gasped and her breath scraped raw against her throat.
Cold followed.
Concrete cold.
It pressed against her spine, her palms, her cheek. Not just temperature, but presence. Unforgiving. Patient.
Her eyes flew open.
Darkness.
Not complete. Just enough light to outline the room in fragments. A bare wall. A hanging bulb somewhere behind her. The shadow of a door she could not reach.
Her body tried to move before her mind caught up.
Pain exploded in her wrists.
Rope.
Thick. Tight. Digging into skin already sore.
Her ankles too.
The realization hit her all at once, violent and absolute.
"No," she whispered.
The word shattered as it left her mouth.
Panic rose like a tide she could not outrun. Her chest tightened. Breath came too fast, too shallow. The room shrank around her. The air felt thin, insufficient, as if even oxygen had turned against her.
She pulled at the restraints again, harder, desperation lending her strength.
Pain answered immediately.
She cried out, the sound echoing back wrong, distorted.
That was when she heard the laughter.
Low.
Close.
Unhurried.
"You're awake."
A man stepped into the thin light. Then another.
They stayed just far enough away that she could not fully see their faces. It was intentional. Denial of clarity. Stripping certainty.
Their silhouettes were enough. Broad shoulders. Relaxed posture.
People who were not afraid of her fear.
Her body began to shake uncontrollably.
"Where am I?" she demanded, clinging to anger like a lifeline. "What do you want?"
One of them crouched in front of her.
Too close.
She could smell cigarettes on his breath. Metal. Something sour beneath it. His eyes moved over her slowly, not missing the tears, the tremor in her hands, the way her shoulders curled inward.
"What we want," he said calmly, "is for you to stop being interesting."
His hand came up.
Not fast. Not violent.
He gripped her chin and tilted her face upward, forcing her to meet his gaze.
Aria flinched so hard the rope bit into her wrists.
"Don't touch me," she sobbed.
The other man laughed. "See? That's the part we don't understand."
The first man released her abruptly and stood. "He really liked you, didn't he?"
Her heart slammed painfully against her ribs.
The name slipped out before she could stop it.
"Damian."
The room changed.
The air thickened.
The men exchanged a look. Satisfied. Almost amused.
"Oh, we know," the first man said softly. "That's why you're here."
He paced slowly, measured steps, like he had all the time in the world. "You're not special. You're just convenient."
His fingers brushed her shoulder as he passed. Casual. Invasive. Not enough to bruise.
Enough to humiliate.
Aria curled inward, sobbing openly now, fear ripping through her in relentless waves.
She was alone.
No guards.
No Julia.
No walls of glass and power.
No Damian.
Just concrete, rope, and men who wanted her small.
---
Damian felt it before the call came.
That quiet certainty settled deep in his bones. Something had been taken.
When his phone rang, he was already standing.
"Driver's down," the voice said, tight. "We didn't see them. Junction hit. They took her."
The world narrowed.
Damian closed his eyes.
One second.
That was all the mercy he allowed himself.
"Is he alive?" he asked.
A pause. "Yes. Gunshot, but he's breathing."
"Good."
Another pause. "Sir—"
"They took her," Damian said evenly. "That means they want something."
He ended the call and stared at the darkened window of his study.
"They made a choice," he murmured.
And choices had consequences.
---
They did not call immediately.
That was the cruelty of it.
Hours passed.
No demands.
No proof.
No threats.
They wanted his mind working in the dark, chasing possibilities, imagining the worst.
Damian did not pace.
Did not shout.
Did not break anything.
He sat opposite his desk, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes fixed on nothing.
"Lock down everything," he said when his men gathered. "No digital noise. No outside chatter."
"Yes, sir."
"And find out who thought this was clever."
A man hesitated. "When we do?"
Damian looked up slowly.
"Then we begin."
---
Time lost meaning for Aria.
The light never changed. The room never softened.
Sometimes they came in. Sometimes they did not.
Sometimes they spoke. Sometimes they only watched.
She cried until her chest hurt. Until her throat burned. Until even tears felt like effort.
When exhaustion dragged her under, sleep came in broken fragments. Dreams of hands she could not escape. Voices she could not see.
When she woke again, nothing had changed.
Except her.
One of the men leaned against the wall, phone in hand.
"He's moving," he said to the other.
The other smiled. "Good."
Aria's stomach dropped.
They were not afraid of Damian.
They were waiting for him.
---
By nightfall, Damian had already crossed lines no one else could see yet.
Accounts frozen.
Routes cut.
Names resurfacing from places they had hidden comfortably for years.
This was not retaliation.
It was preparation.
Somewhere in a concrete room, bound and trembling, Aria prayed for a miracle.
Damian did not pray.
He sharpened.
And whoever had taken her had no idea what they had just turned him into.