The grand banquet still buzzed with chatter and glasses clinking as Azrael walked out of the ballroom, his expression unreadable. His strides were long and silent, his coat flowing behind him like a shadow. The lights of the luxurious hall flickered against his pale skin, casting a faint golden hue across his sharp features. Just as he approached the marble hallway leading to the main entrance, his phone rang — a deep vibration he felt against his chest more than he heard. He glanced at the screen. No name. Just a number. But he knew who it was.
He didn't hesitate. He answered.
A few clipped words were exchanged. His jaw tightened.
Without looking back, he made a swift turn and exited the building entirely. His driver, who had been waiting all along near the black SUV parked in the shadows, straightened at the sight of him.
"Welcome, sir," the man greeted respectfully, quickly opening the backseat door.
Azrael didn't reply. He slid in and the door closed behind him with a dull thud. The vehicle started immediately, the windows dimmed to black as they sped through the quiet night streets. But they weren't heading home. Not yet.
The journey took them to the darker part of town — the kind of place unmarked on most maps, where secrets were buried and blood was currency. A neon-lit club stood at the corner of a lonely alley, pulsing with music and laughter. But Azrael wasn't here for the drinks or the women. The moment they arrived, the bouncer stepped aside, bowing slightly, and Azrael moved through the side entrance that led to a hidden elevator.
He and his driver entered. The elevator descended—past the basement—deeper into a place not even the club's staff knew existed. A steel door awaited at the end of a narrow hallway, sealed with a thumbprint scan.
The door hissed open.
Inside the room, the air was thick and heavy with the scent of blood and sweat. The walls were concrete, unpainted, and dark red stains marked various corners. A harsh light hung from the ceiling, swinging slowly.
A middle-aged man sat slumped on the floor, his white shirt soaked in blood. His face was bruised, one eye nearly swollen shut. Across from him, a young woman was tied to a chair with ropes so tight her skin had started to bleed. Her face was a mess of purple welts and tear streaks. She trembled the moment Azrael stepped in.
His presence sucked the remaining air out of the room.
Azrael didn't speak at first. He walked calmly toward a metal chair and pulled it out slowly, the screech of metal against concrete making both prisoners flinch. He sat, crossing one leg over the other, his dark eyes cold and still.
"You dare harass my lady in my club?" His voice was low, calm, and yet it carried like thunder.
The man whimpered. "Please… please I didn't know—"
Azrael stood. His hands reached into the inside of his coat and retrieved a gleaming silver knife. Its blade was narrow, polished, and curved like a fang.
He walked over to the man and crouched slightly, so their eyes met. "Which hand did you touch her with?"
The man stuttered, his lips trembling. Sweat poured from his brow like rain. "I—I don't remember… please, I didn't mean—"
"You want me to cut off both then?" Azrael asked, almost gently.
"No no no! It's this one!" The man screamed in terror, thrusting forward his left hand with shaking fingers.
Azrael smiled. A cruel, quiet smile. "Good."
Before the man could blink, Azrael grabbed the hand by the wrist and held it up in the air. With a swift motion, he brought the knife down, slicing through flesh and bone like it was butter. Blood splattered across the floor, and the man let out a scream so loud it echoed through the chamber. His severed hand dropped to the ground with a dull thump.
Two massive guards emerged from the shadows and dragged the screaming man away, his cries fading into the distance.
Azrael wiped the blood off his knife and turned slowly toward the woman.
She refused to look at him. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, her eyes fixed on the floor. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth.
"You don't love me anymore, right?" Azrael asked, laughter bubbling from his throat.
The woman didn't respond.
She was one of his workers — a woman who had signed a strict six-month contract to serve as a sex worker in his underground network. The rules were simple: no kissing, no eye contact, no affection. It was all mechanical, done from behind, no emotion. That was the contract. And it had one clause: if she ever confessed love for him, she would pay with her life.
She had broken that clause two days ago.
The woman said nothing. She looked away, tears brimming but unspilled. Her fear wasn't loud — it was silent, hollow, deep. She had worked under Azrael's terms, strict ones. But she had made a mistake: she grew feelings. For him. And in Azrael's world, that was never allowed.
"I warned you not to feel," he said, rising to his feet. "Not to hope. Not to look at me like I was a man."
He adjusted his coat, pulled on his gloves, and checked his watch.
1:45 a.m.
His eyes swept over both of them one last time.
"Make sure they understand," he said to the shadows behind him — men who had been silent the entire time but were always there.
Azrael turned and left without a backward glance. He stepped into the SUV, leaned his head back against the seat, and closed his eyes.Azrael opened his eyes slowly, a flicker of something unreadable in them. Maybe regret. Maybe rage.
"No," he said. "Take me to the estate. I need silence."
And with that, the car disappeared into the night — carrying a man who was no longer just a man.
He was something far more dangerous.