The city was still asleep when Damien called me the next morning.
No preamble. No "good morning." Just his voice, low and clipped:"Be ready in twenty minutes. Wear something you can move in."
The line went dead before I could ask what for.
I stood there for a beat, phone still in hand, the words sinking in. This wasn't going to be another quiet intel-gathering mission. Something in his tone told me I was about to be dragged deeper into his world—deeper than I'd ever been, maybe deeper than I could crawl back out from.
By the time the SUV pulled up outside my building, I was dressed in black—cargo pants, fitted jacket, boots with just enough give for a quick sprint or a fast kick. No makeup. Hair tied back.
Damien didn't comment on my outfit, but I caught the flicker of approval in his eyes as I slid into the passenger seat.
"Where to?" I asked.
"Riverside Industrial," he said, watching the road ahead. "There's a man who owes me something. He's been avoiding calls, meetings, polite reminders. So now… we're skipping straight to the final notice."
"Final notice," I repeated. "That's a nice way of saying—"
"That you're about to see the real side of this business," he interrupted, his voice calm. "And if you can't stomach it, walk away now."
I held his gaze. "I'm here, aren't I?"
The ride was long, the streets thinning out until skyscrapers gave way to abandoned warehouses and cracked asphalt. The sky was still pale and cold, the kind of dawn where the air feels sharp enough to cut skin.
When we finally pulled up, the place looked like it had been abandoned for decades—broken windows, rusted metal siding, weeds pushing through the cracks in the pavement. But there was a faint hum of electricity from inside. Someone was home.
Inside the SUV's trunk, Damien handed me a pair of black gloves and a small earpiece.
"Don't speak unless I tell you to," he said. "Just watch. Learn."
The warehouse's front door wasn't locked—never a good sign. Damien pushed it open with a casual confidence that made the air inside feel heavier.
The man we were here for was sitting at a metal table near the center of the floor, a single desk lamp casting him in a cone of yellow light. He was in his late forties, unshaven, with eyes that darted like a cornered animal.
"Mr. Hale," Damien greeted, stepping into the light. "We've been trying to reach you."
Hale's mouth twitched. "I… I just needed time. Things got complicated—"
Damien didn't respond. He set a small black case on the table, snapping it open to reveal… tools. Not guns. Not knives. Tools. A set of pliers. Cable ties. A roll of duct tape. Things that didn't kill instantly, but promised hours of discomfort before the end.
Hale's breathing picked up. "You can't do this—"
Damien raised a hand, silencing him, then turned to me. "Elara."
I froze for a fraction of a second. "Yes?"
"Close the door."
I did. And with that single click of the latch, the air in the room changed. No way out. No interruptions.
Damien moved with deliberate slowness, circling Hale like a shark. "You took something that wasn't yours. You didn't just take money—you took my word. My reputation. You know what that means?"
Hale's eyes flicked to me again, pleading. I didn't move.
Damien reached into the case and pulled out the pliers, the metal catching the lamplight. He didn't start with violence. Instead, he began asking questions—about who Hale had worked with, where the shipment had gone, how much he'd sold it for.
Every time Hale hesitated, Damien set the pliers down and used his words like blades—calm, precise, cutting away at the man's resolve.
It wasn't about pain. Not yet. It was about fear. About making Hale imagine what could happen.
Eventually, Hale broke, his words spilling out in a rush. The names. The addresses. The bank accounts. Damien listened, occasionally glancing at me as if to make sure I was memorizing every detail.
When it was over, Damien stood, placing the pliers back in the case. "You've just bought yourself a little more time, Hale. But you'll be hearing from me again."
We left him there, hunched over the table, shaking.
Back in the SUV, Damien handed me a small notebook. Inside were the details Hale had given, written in my own hand from memory. I hadn't even realized I'd been scribbling them down.
"Not bad," Damien said. "You didn't flinch."
I shrugged, though my pulse was still hammering. "You told me to watch and learn."
He gave me a look that lingered a little too long. "Next time, you won't just be watching."
The SUV pulled away, the warehouse fading into the distance, but the weight of his words stayed with me.
I didn't know whether to feel proud… or terrified.
Because I was starting to realize that there was no "next time" without going further. And further meant crossing a line I wasn't sure I could uncross.