The mafia’s captive
The mountain air was thin, cold, and humming with silence—too much silence.
Bain stepped through the crumbling chapel entrance of the abandoned monastery, his boots cracking over old bone fragments. Viktor was behind him, gun drawn, tension thick in his shoulders. Liang had intercepted encrypted chatter that mentioned “The Collector’s Vault”—a storage site Valeria used to keep records and merchandise. They suspected it wasn’t just another facility. This was different.
Inside, the walls were lined with preserved documents, photos, hard drives—rows upon rows of grotesque memorabilia. But something stopped Bain cold: a sealed glass chamber in the center. Inside, floating in a preserved solution
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