The Underground Basement air was thick with iron and sweat, dim yellow bulbs flickering against damp concrete walls. The man tied to the steel chair sagged forward, blood at the corner of his mouth, breath ragged. One eye was swollen shut; his shirt hung in shreds, clinging to him with dark stains.
Chaos stood before him, pristine despite the brutality in the room. His black gloves caught the harsh light, his expression calm and detached, as if he were in a board meeting instead of a basement.
He crouched, leveling his icy gaze at the man.
"Where," he asked softly, "is my shipment?"
The prisoner whimpered, shaking his head weakly. "I... I told you… I don't know."
The door groaned open and Alex sauntered in, shirt marked with fresh red blood, the scent of violence trailing behind him like smoke. He grinned like a wolf that had already eaten. "Is our poor guest still lying?," Alex asked cheerfully, tossing a stained rag onto the floor. "Awwnn its cute.... He still thinks he's got something to protect."
Whistling low, he strolled to the steel table laid out with tools, pliers, hooks, blades, running his fingers over each one like he was choosing candy from a jar. He lifted a branding iron and smirked. "Maybe he'll sing better with a little fire in his veins, no?"
Chaos didn't flinch. He straightened, adjusting his cufflinks, his gaze never leaving the broken man in the chair.
"You have one more chance," Chaos said, voice cutting like glass. "Where is it?"
The prisoner shuddered, lips trembling, but he still forced out, "Go… to hell."
Alex's grin widened. "Wrong answer." He raised the iron slightly, then looked at Chaos. "Say the word, bratan. You want him screaming loud enough for the devil to hear?"
Chaos's eyes narrowed, shadows deepening around him.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Chaos stepped forward and took the tool from Alex himself.
He pressed the heated metal down. The man's scream tore through the room, raw and desperate.
"See, the thing here is…" Chaos said, his voice calm, almost bored, "…I've been pissed off for the last couple of weeks."
The captive convulsed, fighting the restraints, the sound turning hoarse.
"And then my shipping container goes missing," Chaos continued. "Alex over there has been having fun beating you all up to get one measly answer from you. But I don't have time, you see."
The screaming kept going, loud, messy, endless.
Chaos's expression didn't change.
"Oh, for the love of God, would you shut up," he said flatly.
And then, he closed his hand around the heated metal as if proving a point. His voice bored, almost mocking.
"It's not even that hot."
The prisoner's eyes went wild. Not from pain alone, but from the realization settling into him like a death sentence.
This wasn't a man, but a monster!
Chaos let the iron drop. The air still held the sharp bite of heat and fear. His hand flexed once, blood slipping down his wrist, but his face remained untouched, calm, like nothing had happened.
The captive's screams ricocheted off the concrete until they cracked into pitiful sobs. His whole body shook against the chair, sweat pouring down his battered face. When his eyes lifted and found Chaos again, steady, unbothered, something inside him finally snapped.
Terror. Pure and unfiltered.
Chaos leaned in close, voice low, steady, almost conversational.
"Now you understand," Chaos murmured. "Alex likes to play. But me?" He tilted his head, eyes glinting. "I hate games."
The prisoner shook violently, the last shred of defiance dissolving into panic. "O-okay! Okay! The shipment, your shipment... it... it's at the docks! Pier 17!" His voice cracked as he rushed the words out. "It was taken by the Meyer syndicate! Meyer's people, they're the ones who wanted it!"
Alex, who had been grinning the whole time, barked a laugh and tossed the iron back onto the table with a clang. "Well, well, well. Looks like our sweet Meyer isn't just busy polishing his new throne after all."
He shot Chaos a look, his smirk widening "Slyshish, bratan? Meyer igraet gryazno" he said in Russian
[You hear that, brother? Meyer's playing dirty.]
Chaos straightened, wiping his bloodied hand on the prisoner's torn shirt with clinical detachment.
"Not dirty," he corrected, voice cold as steel. "Suicidal."
He motioned lazily toward the broken man. "Dispose of him."
Alex reached for a blade, eager to finish the job. Chaos slipped his glove back on over the fresh burn without so much as a wince. His lips curved into the faintest, cruelest smile.
Outside the basement, The night air hit like ice as Chaos stepped out of the suffocating basement, the metallic tang of blood still clinging to him. The moon hung high and pale, throwing silver across the gravel lot where his car waited.
Blood dripped steadily from his hand, leaving a dark trail in the dust.
Xavier was already stationed by the sleek black car. He straightened immediately, sharp eyes catching the crimson drops.
"Sir," Xavier said, tone flat but edged with quiet concern, "your hand."
Chaos glanced down, flexing his fingers slowly. The burn across his palm was raw, angry. His expression didn't flicker.
He reached for the handkerchief Xavier was holding out and wrapped it around the wound with efficient precision.
"It's nothing," Chaos said coolly as he slid into the back seat.
Xavier took the driver's seat without another word, though his eyes flicked to the makeshift bandage in the rearview mirror.
Silence stretched heavy until Chaos finally spoke, gaze fixed on the city lights in the distance.
"The Meyers think they can steal from me." His voice sharpened, like a blade being drawn. "Let's show them what happens when you steal from a Riegrow."
Xavier started the engine, the low growl filling the night. "Orders?"
Chaos leaned back, eyes glinting cold and deliberate.
"Call the docks," he said. "I want every asset at Pier 17 turned to ash before sunrise."
He looked down at his bandaged hand and flexed it once.