"Those motherfuckers," Miguel sneered, the words vibrating through his clenched teeth with a dreadful tone capable of capsizing a ship.
Without hesitation and without another wasted second of his precious time, he stepped back into the sanctuary of his room, slamming the door shut with a loud, precise thud that echoed like a gavel.
The room suddenly felt emptier, drier, and more hollow than it had minutes before; it was completely devoid of the warmth it had carried during his fleeting moment of distraction.
The silence became so deafening that it felt as if the very air were spoiling alongside Miguel's mood.
As he slid into something more suitable, something functional for the task ahead, his mind began to churn. He pondered the questions his eager, curious mind demanded answers to.
What was the motive? Who hired them?
"Anyways, we would find out soon," he breathed out, his voice unnervingly calm as he buttoned his shirt.
Whoever had the guts to make an attempt on his life was going to regret that the thought had ever dared to cross their mind.
There were things Miguel despised, sins he never found the grace to forgive: betrayal and theft were plagues, but an attempt on his life? That never came with a seat at the negotiation table.
His philosophy was as jagged and simple as a blade: I would kill you, if I don't die.
After dressing, he stood in front of the large mirror one last time, analysing his stance. He looked casual—a simplicity that spoke volumes.
He wore a white oversized shirt, buttoned only from the chest down to reveal hints of his sculpted torso, paired with jet-black trousers.
Simple loafers over socks and a tanzanite-encrusted watch that hung loosely on his wrist like a piece of ordinary metal completed the look.
It was an innocent outfit, almost reverent in its purity, yet it was about to be the costume for a sin so grotesque it could pass for a psychopath's show in the cinema. He was literally about to stain that white tee.
With a final look, he walked out, letting the ajar door silently creak closed behind him.
He knew exactly where they would be waiting. He walked with purpose until he reached a dead end—no hesitation, no waiting.
He approached a large, macabre sculpture: a chained, blindfolded woman held in a chokehold, her hands clutching multiple harvested organs.
Miguel took another icy, deep breath, reached out, and swiped the statue's eyes slightly before taking two steps back.
He stood with his hands crossed over the small of his back, radiating that calm, calculated, and nonchalant aura that never betrayed a single clue of the carnage he was imagining.
Then came the sound: a large crack, followed by the deep, rusty groan of a secret door's mechanism.
A raspy hiss of hydraulics followed a sharp click!
The wall carved out a dark alleyway. Automatically, the lights hummed to life, and the gears groaned again as Miguel majestically walked in, shutting out the world where he was a man of value—a role model in magazines, an icon in charity homes, an idol, and an inspiration.
This was his reality. This was the main channel to the billionaire lifestyle and the vast empire. Inside this place, which smelled of overdue copper and ancient rust, he was known as the ruthless Don, or Sire Miguel. And he loved it that way.
Miguel stood still for a moment, scanning the long, dimly lit aisle ahead. He averted his gaze to the rows of locked, dark, prison-like rooms where the faint marks of blood on the bars spoke of failed resistance and desperate survival.
This place screamed of the illegal and the inhumane; soft sobs and crackly, hoarse pleas seeped out from behind the bars, all begging for a freedom that didn't exist here.
It didn't faze him. It never did. He saw them as stocks and goods, harvests to be reaped or sold. What mattered was the cash, what mattered was that the money never stopped flowing.
He took a quick glance at his watch. No more time to waste. This shit needs to be done and dusted.
He continued his flawless stride toward the main concern of the night, drawing closer with every rhythmic breath. He could hear it now: the faint, desperate cries of men undergoing the most brutal torments of their lives.
Those screeching yells brought a dark pleasure to Miguel's ears.
The guard standing in front of a heavily blood-stained door gave a sharp, military bow as Miguel approached. The man pushed the metal door open with a soft grunt of effort.
Miguel glided past, contained and cold, not sparing the guard even a glance.
The moment he stepped in, he was hit by the stinging scent of iron-rich blood mixed with stale sweat and expensive cologne.
One didn't need a dictionary to spell "dread" here; the activities were written on the walls.
Weapons with dried stains were hung casually on the rough stone, and curling smoke exuded from the blunts being dragged by a few men, their embers glowing like tiny, angry stars in the gloom.
That wasn't Miguel's concern. He was a man of time. After scanning the room with an eagle's precision, his gaze finally landed on them.
The main three.
Their wrists were hung high, chained to a horizontal bar. Their weak bodies struggled to find purchase on the floor, sagging under the weight of the torture they had already endured.
The bald, muscular man responsible for the whipping and slashing suddenly retreated as Miguel entered. The echoes of the screams died down; the stage had been cleared for the headliner to finish the show.
The bald man walked to the side, pulling off his blood-slicked gloves with a look of pure hatred for the prisoners, giving the scapegoats a small pocket of air.
These bastards had remained silent through the initial rounds, refusing to utter a single name. They looked prepared to take their secrets to the afterlife.Seeing the torturer retreat, a small, flicker of victory danced on their mangled faces.
They hadn't realised it yet. They were standing in front of a man known to be more cruel than the devil himself. They would regret not talking while they still had tongues to speak with.
To be continued....