A Shallow Warehouse
It was night time, and the rain was pouring down mercilessly, as if the heavens themselves had declared war on the earth. The wind howled through the forest, whistling sharply against the rusted tin walls of an abandoned warehouse that stood in eerie isolation. Thunder cracked across the sky, illuminating the dark woods in fleeting flashes of silver.
A convoy of black cars rushed through the storm, their engines roaring against the angry weather. The headlights sliced through the dense darkness, acting as the only mediators between the world of shadows and the world of men. Mud splashed violently as the tires screeched to a halt.
Moments later, the series of cars stood one by one in front of the warehouse, forming a perfect line like disciplined soldiers awaiting command.
The door of the first car opened.
A man in a long black coat stepped out, his polished shoes touching the wet ground without hesitation. Two men immediately followed, opening a large umbrella over his head to shield him from the relentless rain. Even in such weather, not a single drop was allowed to touch him.
Some hooligans were already standing in front of the warehouse entrance, their faces tense, their posture stiff.
The man's dark hair was slicked back, and his piercing dark eyes scanned the area with cold precision. His presence alone made the air heavier.
"Where is he?" he asked calmly.
His voice was low—almost gentle—but it carried an authority that demanded obedience.
One of the hooligans swallowed nervously before replying, "We tied him inside, sir. Please come in and see for yourself."
The man in the coat was Eric Wilson—the most renowned name the entire world seemed to know.
His reputation traveled faster than rumors and hit harder than bullets. His name alone was enough to shatter confidence and shake empires.
People feared him more than they feared death itself.
Eric, tall and stern, walked toward the warehouse entrance without another word. The metal door creaked open, revealing darkness within. The electricity had failed due to the heavy rain, leaving the interior lit only by occasional lightning and a few dim emergency torches.
Water dripped from the ceiling. The air smelled of rust and fear.
Eric and his men walked deeper inside until they reached the center of the warehouse. There, under a faint hanging bulb powered by a generator, a middle-aged man was tied to a chair—hands bound tightly, face bruised, body trembling.
The moment he saw Eric, terror consumed him.
A chilling, almost beastly smile curved on Eric's lips. He raised his hand slightly, and one of his men immediately placed a gun into it.
The tied man began to cry desperately, but a cloth was stuffed into his mouth. He made muffled sounds, shaking violently.
Eric tilted his head slightly. "Remove it."
One of the men stepped forward and pulled the ribbon from the captive's mouth.
The man gasped for air and immediately pleaded, "Boss, please leave me. Please forgive me. I have a family. How will they live without me? Please, boss… I beg you."
Eric remained calm and composed. Not a flicker of emotion crossed his face.
In a lower yet powerful voice, he asked, "What do you have to say?"
The man's lips quivered. Words seemed to abandon him.
Eric stepped closer, pointing the gun directly at his forehead.
The man swallowed hard and stammered, "There… there have been a number of trunks and intermodals that have gone missing."
Eric reached into his pocket, took out a cigarette, and lit it leisurely. The flame reflected in his dark eyes.
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled smoke slowly toward the trembling man.
"Tell me something that I don't know," Eric said coldly.
The captive hesitated. His eyes darted around helplessly.
One of Eric's men kicked him harshly in the ribs. Another punched him across the face.
"I'll tell the truth! I'll tell the truth!" he cried out.
Eric's brows furrowed, his gaze darkening further.
"Then speak."
"It was him," the man said, breathing heavily. "He wanted to bring loss to your company."
Eric's jaw tightened. "Who's that?"
The shout echoed across the empty warehouse, blending with thunder.
The man whispered the name, "Mathew Dorris."
For a split second, silence consumed the space.
Eric's eyes flickered—not with surprise, but with burning rage. The name alone seemed to ignite something dangerous within him.
Without another word, without hesitation, he pulled the trigger.
The gunshot thundered through the warehouse.
The body fell limp.
Outside, the storm continued as if nothing had happened.
Wilson Mansion
In complete contrast to the cold brutality of the warehouse, the Wilson mansion radiated luxury and indulgence.
George Wilson, a man in his sixties yet still physically imposing, sat comfortably on a lavish couch upholstered in expensive leather. A crystal glass of wine rested in his hand. His posture was relaxed, almost bored.
The rain lashed against the large glass windows of the mansion, but inside, the atmosphere was warm, dimly lit, and seductive.
A woman dressed in lace lingerie moved gracefully before him, her body swaying rhythmically to soft music playing in the background. The light accentuated her curves as she danced, her movements deliberate and enticing.
George watched her with predatory focus.
To him, she was not a person, only a possession.
She approached slowly, moving her hips in a hypnotic rhythm. Sitting on his lap, she continued her dance, pressing closer.
George's gaze lingered shamelessly. His fingers moved to her waist, gripping firmly before sliding downward. He squeezed harshly until a pained moan escaped her lips.
Fear flickered across her face.
She slipped off his lap and fell onto the carpet, clearly shaken.
George stood up lazily, adjusting his cufflinks before stepping toward her. There was hunger in his eyes, raw and selfish. He leaned down, ready to claim what he believed was his.
But suddenly, the shrill sound of a ringing phone cut through the atmosphere.
His expression darkened with irritation.
He exhaled sharply. "Lazy bitch," he muttered under his breath before straightening up.
The phone continued ringing.
George glanced at the screen.
Eric.
His irritation faded instantly.
"Yes, Eric, tell me," George said, his tone changing to something far more serious as he motioned for the woman to leave the room immediately.
Outside, the storm raged on.
Eric was in the car heading back home, said, "It's Mathew."
Dorris Mansio
A soft piano melody drifted from the first floor, flowing gently from Emily's room and settling into the vast silence of the mansion.
Mathew sat in his study, immersed in files, his expression unreadable. A knock broke the stillness before a man stepped inside.
"Boss… there's news."
Without lifting his gaze, Mathew replied coolly, "Go on."
"Robert is dead."
The air thickened.
Mathew's fingers paused over the paper. For a long moment, he said nothing. He had anticipated this. He knew Eric would never allow Robert to slip away untouched.
"So it begins," he murmured under his breath. "Is it truly so difficult to comprehend that war can arrive unannounced?"
Before the man could respond, June appeared at the doorway. "Mathew, Father is waiting at the dining table. I believe he wishes to discuss something urgent."
Mathew exhaled sharply. "Of course he does… Let's go."
As he descended the staircase, the piano notes faded behind him. His gaze instinctively drifted outside—
And he stopped.
Across the street stood a black car. Engine running.
Headlights dimmed.
Inside, a man smoked slowly, his silhouette partially veiled in shadow, eyes fixed upon the mansion.
Not casually watching.
Observing. Waiting. Mathew's jaw tightened. This was no coincidence.