The room was dark—almost suffocating in its stillness. The only light came from a dim bulb hanging low from the ceiling, its chain swaying slightly as though moved by the weight of silence itself. Beneath that trembling light sat a man—imposing, statuesque, a silent storm in a tailored black suit. Dal. Uncle to Lucian Voss Drayden. Puppeteer of misfortunes. A man whose power bent laws, silenced truths, and rewrote fates. He sat with his legs crossed, the smoke from his Cuban cigar curling around him like a loyal serpent. The oak table before him bore deep scars—some from time, others from history written in violence. A glass of whiskey, untouched, glistened at his side, reflecting the steely glint in his calculating eyes. Then came the sound—heavy boots on cold concrete, the metallic groan of a bolted door opening, and the dragged breath of a man in agony. Two of Dal’s men—broad, shadow-faced, and silent—stepped into the room, dragging a third man between them. Bloodied.
Last Updated : 2025-10-29 Read more