Broken Hands

126. The Doppelganger

Grayson could feel his body losing strength. His limbs felt like lead, his head heavy with exhaustion. He hadn't slept in days, hadn't eaten, and only drank a few times when they let him. His ribs hurt with every breath he drew, his hands and back hurt from the fight and his head pounded with a killer migraine, but he couldn't dwell on the pain. The drive had been long, stretching into an endless, silent torment. He had expected another attack, more dead bodies, more chaos. But none of it weighed on him as much as Russell did. His cousin's face pale, like his breath had been snatched unexpectedly—if Grayson could trade places, if he could give his life to bring Russell back, he would. Without hesitation.

Now, he sat slumped in a metal chair, hands tied behind his back, wrists rubbed raw from the restraints. The darkness pressed in around him. He had been left here for what felt like hours, maybe even days. Alone. Trapped inside his own mind. Even the small corners of his thoughts where he used to escape had been tainted. There was no peace here. Only torture.

The door creaked open. The sharp, deliberate click of polished business shoes echoed against the cold floor, slow and unhurried. The sound alone told Grayson everything he needed to know—this man wasn't in a rush.

The heavy scrape of metal rang out as the blinds were pulled open. Sunlight slashed through the room, forcing Grayson to squint. It was the first time he had seen daylight in what felt like forever. But it did nothing for him. No warmth, no comfort. Just another reminder that the world outside kept moving while he remained trapped.

A shadow fell over him. The man perched himself on the table in front of him, unbuttoning his suit with practiced ease. His fingers slipped into his pocket like he had all the time in the world. Grayson recognized him instantly. The same figure from that night. The one who had worn a mask when he was drugged and taken.

"Hello, Gray." His voice was unnervingly light, almost playful.

Grayson didn't look up.

The man let out a small chuckle. "Ah, the silent treatment. You wound me." He sighed dramatically, as if this was all a mild inconvenience. "You know, I had a feeling you'd be difficult. You've got that look—like a dog that bites even when it's got no teeth left."

Grayson's expression remained blank, unmoved.

The man hummed, tilting his head, a hand brushed over his hat. "I was hoping we could make this easy. Really, I was. But no, you've got to be stubborn. Makes things more fun, though. I like a little resistance." He leaned forward, his voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "So, let's not waste time. Where's the code, Gray? Where's the file?"

Nothing.

Grayson barely blinked.

The man let out a low whistle. "Damn. You really don't break easy, do you?" He shook his head in amusement. "You think you can hold out forever? You think someone's coming to save you?" His laugh was light, mocking. "Here's the thing—you're not the only one who's been through hell, kid. You haven't seen the worst of it?"

Grayson kept his silence, too numb to care.

The man's smile never faltered. "Fine. Be like that. I've got other ways to loosen that tongue of yours. But, lucky for you, I'm feeling generous today." He turned, hands slipping into his pockets. "We'll just take a little trip. Mandor. Ever been to the Bahamas?" He grinned. "Warm weather. Crystal-clear water. And some of the worst people you'll ever meet. But don't worry, they'll take real good care of you."

Still, Grayson didn't react. He was ready for whatever hell they had planned next.

But before the man could savor his victory, the door burst open.