Ross didn't need to spring the trap just yet.
But where was the fun in waiting?
Victory was best served with the bitterness of another man's despair, and Ross was a connoisseur of suffering. He had waited patiently, meticulously, and now—he would finally drink in the reward he'd been craving.
The heavy, reinforced door creaked open, its hinges groaning as though even the metal could feel the weight of what lay beyond. For more than a month, that door had remained closed. Not a single soul had entered. Not a sound had escaped.
Inside, darkness clung to the walls like mold. The air was stale, thick with the scent of sweat and fear. And there, bound to a cold metal chair with thick chains biting into his wrists and ankles, was Cyril Fleming.
The once-proud man was barely recognizable now.
His eyes were sunken, bloodshot from weeks of forced wakefulness. His lips cracked, his skin pallid. He hadn't spoken in days—hadn't had the chance.
