Elliott Miller is your average 23 year-old, only with a lost father and a resentful mother. When he goes back to his hometown to make amends, he inadvertently gets dragged into the activities of an illicit criminal group.
Enter Marcel Nixon, 25, wh...
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I was taken to a warehouse-like structure, situated in the woods. The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something else, something metallic, something that hinted at violence. They shoved me into a room, hands tied behind me with a rope.
The leader of the gang, who went by the name 'Bloodhound' (which I found very cringe-worthy), stepped in front of me. He was a man with cold, calculating eyes and a scar that snaked down his cheek, multiple unholy tattoos consuming every square inch of skin. He surveyed me with a predatory gaze, a slow, deliberate assessment that made my skin crawl.
"Marcel Nixon," he sneered, the words dripping with disdain. "We've been expecting you."
He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "You know, for someone so involved in... counterintelligence, you're remarkably easy to lure."
I glared at him, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. "What do you want?"
He leaned closer, his stench polluting my personal space. "Information. Cooperation. But mostly... entertainment."
He gestured to the figures surrounding me, their faces hidden behind masks.
"My associates have been... observing you, Mr. Nixon. They've been very impressed with your... dedication, to your work."
He emphasized the word 'dedication' with a chilling sarcasm.
"You've been playing a dangerous game, Marcel," he continued, his voice low and menacing. "You thought you could infiltrate our organization, play us against each other. You thought you were so clever." He laughed again, a harsh, grating sound. "But you're just a pawn. A pawn in a game you don't even understand."
He began to taunt me, uncovering bits and pieces of my past. Things I thought no one knew. That didn't bother me as much since Mr. Grey had already explained all of it to me. I had made my peace with my father's death and sought to seek my vengeance through ending this cartel.
It was when they began speaking about Elliott that my composure began to break. Details of his childhood, his father, his mother.. That good-for-nothing swine knew almost everything. That 'almost' being the only thing retaining my sanity.
He spoke with venom about Elliott's father, how the gang had forced him to flee to Russia, how Elliott would never see him again. The words were like daggers. How could they hurt him that way? Each revelation was a carefully orchestrated blow, designed to chip away at my resolve.
"Your little boy-toy's father," the leader said, his voice laced with mock sympathy. "Such a disappointment he was. So eager to protect his son. And where is he now? Hiding in some forgotten corner of the world, afraid to show his face. Once I'm done with you, I will find that little twerp and ship him off along with you, to where you both belong; in some miserable tundra, where you will be forgotten."
