The distant hum of the city filtered in, faint even through the soundproofed walls. Muffled. Like the whisper of a world that kept spinning, indifferent to whatever hell unfolded behind closed doors.
I sat still behind a black mahogany desk, holding a cup of coffee that had long since gone cold. Across from me, the middle-aged man was trembling. Bloodshot eyes. Puffy face. A body that looked like it had forgotten how to be human.
"I'll pay... everything I have!!"
His voice cracked. Somewhere between a scream and a sob. His breathing was shallow, his chest rising and falling in sharp jolts like a man who had just been dragged out of the ocean of despair.
I didn't respond. I just watched.
"Anything… any amount… I'm begging you… kill them… destroy them all…"
His fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. Between his shaking fingers, I caught a glimpse of a wrinkled photograph. A young girl. Maybe eighteen. Graduation cap and gown. The kind of smile only those untouched by the darker truths of the world could wear.
"Her name?" I asked flatly.
"E… Elia…" His voice was more of a whisper—raw pain taking the form of sound. "She's my only daughter…"
I gave a small nod.
Then he spoke. In fragments. In gasps. About Elia—fresh graduate, hopeful, excited. About a work opportunity from a foreign agency that looked prestigious. A black luxury car that picked her up right from their house. A final call from the airport.
Then nothing.
No messages. No calls. No signs. As if she had vanished from existence.
"I reported it to the police… so many times!" His voice rose. "They just told me to 'wait thirty days,' protocol they said! Thirty days! While my daughter… my baby girl might already be—"
He choked.
His body slumped onto the chair. His shoulders trembled, but no tears fell. He had run dry. All that was left now… was rage.
In the corner, Clara sat cross-legged, elegantly flipping through documents. Her face calm. Almost expressionless. Like a ghost. Silent, but absorbing every detail.
I turned my cold coffee. The surface reflected the soft yellow lamp above us.
"You know," I said quietly, "not once have you asked me to save her. You only said: 'kill them', 'destroy them'."
He froze. Slowly, his gaze met mine. Empty. Hollow.
And then, he nodded.
"I know… she's gone…" he said, voice low but sharper than anything he'd said before. "The only thing I have left… is to make them suffer. Tenfold. A hundredfold. Worse than what they did to Elia."
Honest. Finally.
I stared at him. Not with pity. But understanding.
Human rage is... the finest kind of fuel.
"How much can you pay?"
"Everything. My savings. My stocks. The land my father left me. I'll sell it all."
Clara rose and handed him a contract. Without hesitation, he signed. The ink spread across the paper like blood tracing vengeance.
"That signature," I said coolly, "marks the beginning of their ruin."
He nodded again.
When the door clicked shut behind him, silence fell again. Heavier. Colder.
I walked to the window. The city still sparkled. Too bright for a place that hides so much rot.
I lit a cigarette. Clara approached, tablet in hand.
"Nineteen missing persons connected to the same MO in the last three months," she said calmly.
"Well-organized ring. Human trafficking disguised as job agencies. Targets: fresh grads, low-income backgrounds, desperate for work."
"No police leads. Recruiters vanish after contact."
I nodded. "That means the source is stable. A place that regularly provides... 'stock.'"
"A school?" Clara raised a brow.
Exactly what I was thinking.
"I'll infiltrate," I said, exhaling smoke. "As a teacher at the school sending the most victims."
Clara grabbed her blazer. "And me?"
"You're a rich parent filing complaints about the school's lack of security."
She gave a soft laugh. "I love it when you play teacher. Like watching the devil give a lecture on morality."
I smirked. "They'll learn something before their hell falls apart."
Step one had just begun.
And I always enjoyed these games.
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