The skyline of Luxora City shimmered in the distance like a jagged crown of glass and neon, a sprawling metropolis that promised everything and gave nothing. Under the twilight-midnight sky a bruised tapestry of deep violets and charcoal greys- the city looked peaceful, but its beauty was a lie. Miles away from the glittering skyscrapers, the world was stripped of its glamour, reduced to the desolate, cracked asphalt of the Blackwood Highway. Here, there was no witnesses, only the wind and the encroaching shadows of the surrounding forest.
The silence of the wasteland was decimated by the banshee wail of a high-performance engine. A Lamborghini, draped in a coat of matte black that seemed to swallow the dim light, tore through the dark like a bullet seeking a heart. It was a mechanical beast at full tilt, its speedometer climbing into a territory where one wrong twitch meant certain death. But it wasn't alone. A few miles back, a formation of heavy black SUVs pursued with predatory precision, their high beams cutting through the night like searchlights in a prison yard. They weren't just chasing; they were herding.
The Lamborghini's brake lights suddenly exploded into a violent, blinding crimson. With a bone-chilling shriek of tortured rubber, the car performed a brutal, high-speed halt, skidding sideways as a ghostly shroud of white smoke billowed from the tires, masking the vehicle in a pale, ethereal fog. The SUVs reacted instantly, their tires howling as they slammed to a stop just few feet away, forming a metallic semi-circle of intimidation.
A heavy, suffocating silence descended upon the highway, broken only by the rhythmic, low-throated purr of the Lamborghini's idling engine- a sound like a predator catching its breath.
After a moment that felt like an eternity, the door of the lead SUV creaked open. Dante Vane, the ruthless heir to the Luxora Syndicate, stepped out. He didn't go for his weapon. Instead, he marched toward the rear of his vehicle, his movements stiff with a cold, vibrating rage. He stared down at the jagged silver gash on his bumper where the Lamborghini had dared to clip him. His jaw was set so tight it looked carved from stone. With trembling fingers, he pulled a gold lighter from his pocket and sparked a cigarette, the flame illuminating the scar running down his cheek.
"Son of a..." he hissed, the smoke curling from his lips as he cursed into the cold night air. Behind him, a dozen men in tactical suits spilled out of the cars, the metallic clack-clack of chambering rounds echoing through the void.
Dante turned his back on his damaged car and faced the Lamborghini, his eyes narrowing into slits. "You see this?" he roared, gesturing vaguely at the darkness. "Who does this silver-spooned bastard think he is? To touch my car in my city? He's either got a death wish or he's too rich to understand what 'consequences' mean."
He stepped toward the purring supercar, his shadow stretching long and menacing across the pavement. "You in the cockpit!" Dante yelled, his voice dripping with lethal intent. "You've got ten seconds to show me your face before my men turn this overpriced tin can into a colander. I don't care how many zeros are in your bank account- out here, you're just another body in the dirt. Do you have any idea whose blood you just provoked?"
The Lamborghini remained motionless, its engine continuing to hum- a silent, arrogant challenge to the King of Luxora.
Δ...Δ...Δ
Outside, the highway was a theater of high-stakes tension, but inside the cockpit of the Lamborghini, the atmosphere was stiflingly mundane. Adrian sat bathed in the dim, red glow of the dashboard lights, his posture slumped with a lethal sort of apathy. While Dante Vane screamed at the wind outside, Adrian was merely bored. He rhythmically tapped his fingers against the carbon-fiber steering wheel, the sound lost beneath the steady, mechanical purr of the engine. With a long theatrical sigh that spoke of a man who would rather be anywhere else, he reached over to the passenger seat and picked up a manila folder that had been tossed there like a piece of junk mail.
He flipped through the pages with a practiced flick of his wrist, his eyes scanning the text with the clinical detachment of a butcher looking at a cut of meat. Target: Dante Vane. Age: 29. Occupation: Mid-level logistics, mostly narcotics. Adrian tossed the file back onto the seat, watching it slide against the leather. A hollow, dry scoff escaped his throat, echoing in the cramped space.
"This is initiation?" he whispered to the empty car, his voice a smooth, dangerous baritone. "Is this what they think I'm worth now? A glorified street dealer with an ego problem? It's an insult to the craft."
He adjusted the rearview mirror, not to check his surroundings, but to study Dante's face. He watched the man pace, watched the way he gestured wildly at the dented bumper, and watched the predictable fury redden his neck. To Adrian, Dante wasn't a threat; he was a specimen. A common, predictable human error wrapped in a designer suit.
"Look at you," Adrian whispered, his eyes cold and vacant as he watched Dante scream through the glass. "You think you're the hunter because you have more cars and more guns. You actually think that bump was an accident."
A thin ghostly smile touched Adrian's lips- a predatory expression that never reached his eyes. He had calculated the physics of that "accident" down the millimeter, knowing exactly how a man of Dante's temperament would react. It was the oldest trick in the book: provoke the ego to paralyze the brain.
"Typical," Adrian sighed, leaning his head back against the headrest. "Anger makes you blind, Dante. And when you're blind, you lose your logic. When you lose your logic, you become a ghost before you're even dead. You're standing in the middle of a dark highway, screaming at a man who has already mapped out the next ten minutes of your life. You aren't a king, you're just a loud distraction."
He reached for the door handle, his movements fluid and chillingly calm. "Let's get this over with. Let's see if your blood is as loud as your mouth."
Δ...Δ...Δ
In the kingdom of the underworld,
mercy is a currency no one can afford,
and blood is the only ink used to sign a soul away...
Δ...Δ...Δ