The sound of a man screaming echoed through the warehouse, raw and animal, bouncing off concrete walls stained by years of use. It did not slow Gabriel's steps. If anything, it blended into the rhythm of the place. Screams came and went here. They always had.
His grandfather had been very clear about things like this. Torture was not about cruelty. It was about efficiency. It was about teaching people where loyalty ended and consequences began. Used properly, it saved time. Used sparingly, it preserved order.
"Boss—Boss, please," the man sobbed from the chair bolted to the floor. Blood soaked through his shirt, dark and spreading. "I swear I didn't sell you out."
Gabriel didn't look back. He straightened his cuffs, smoothing the fabric of his suit as if he were leaving a meeting instead of a warehouse. One of his men drove a fist into the prisoner's ribs, cutting off the next plea with a wet sound.
Gabriel sighed, bored. Tired.
