Ch-45

•~•Third Person POV 

The room was silent— not the peaceful kind of silence, but the kind that clung to the air, ringing in your ears and pressing against your chest. Cold. Thick. Empty.

Davian lay curled on the cement floor, skin pale, lips dry. His shirt clung to him, soaked with sweat and dried blood.

The cuts on his arms had crusted over, but the bruises along his ribs still throbbed with every shallow breath.

His body ached in every corner, every muscle feeling as if it had given up.

His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling—or what might’ve been the ceiling, as the darkness swallowed everything above him.

It was impossible to tell where the walls ended and the shadows began. There were no windows, no light. Just an endless pit of nothingness.

How long had it been?

He tried to remember. One day? Two? A week?

His thoughts drifted to Irene. Was this her doing?

No. He shook his head slowly.

He remembered one of the masked men grabbing her too—rough hands, loud threats. 

She had screamed. If Nathaniel hadn't gotten involved, they probably would’ve taken her as well...

His jaw clenched. Then who the hell was behind this?

He just wanted to see their face—whoever had thrown him into this hellhole. But every time the door creaked open, it was the same damn thing.

Either they fed him…a single stale sandwich and water—or they came in, fists first, ignoring his pleas and screams. 

“You’ve got the wrong person!” he had shouted. “I don’t know your boss! I don’t owe anyone money!” But it never mattered. None of it did.

He let out a weak sigh, his throat scratchy.

‘I wouldn’t even mind a beating… as long as they brought food with it,’ he thought bitterly, his stomach growling from the emptiness.

Then, suddenly, the soft jingle of keys sounded from outside.

His heart skipped a beat as the metal turned in the lock.

Light flooded through the doorway, so bright it stabbed into his eyes. He turned his head with a groan, lifting an arm to shield himself.

Heavy boots thudded against the floor. Fingers grabbed his collar and yanked him up in one rough motion. His back slammed into the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs.

He coughed, chest heaving.

So this is it, he thought. Another round of beating.

The man towering over him wore a black ski mask. Broad shoulders. Thick arms. The kind of body built to hurt.

Davian coughed again, voice hoarse and cracked. “At least feed me first,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “If you lay a finger on me right now… I might just die.”

The man let out a low, amused laugh.

“You can die after meeting the big boss.”

Davian froze.

Big boss?

His heart skipped a beat. He stared up at the man’s hidden face. This was it.

Whoever was behind all this—if he could just meet him, explain it was all a mistake—maybe they’d let him go.

“Please,” he said, pushing himself upright against the wall. His voice trembled.

“When am I meeting him? I need to explain I don’t owe him any money. I swear, he’s got the wrong person. Just… Please, arrange for us to meet. The sooner, the better.”

Desperation clung to every word.

The man stood still, watching him. Then slowly, he gave a small nod.

“Sure,” he said.

Hope lit up in Davian’s eyes. “Really? When?”

But before the man could answer, the sound of wheels—slow, smooth—echoed down the hallway and into the room.

Davian turned toward the door.

His breath caught.

A wheelchair rolled in through the light.

The man seated in it was dressed in black. Calm. Composed. His green eyes—cold, sharp—held a deadly glint.

And then came the voice. Cool. Mocking. Laced with malice and amusement all at once.

“You’re meeting him now.”

Davian’s lips parted, eyes blown wide and fixed on the figure. Disbelief flickered through them as the name scraped from his throat, raw and uncertain. 

“...Nathaniel?”