Broken Hands

133. Was Trapped in the Dark

It was routine now—Grayson being dragged through the halls, just another piece in their game. Then came the drama, the power plays, the threats. He was hurting, and all they cared to do was treat him like an object.

Not that he cared.

He couldn't even think straight. Home, anyone who cared—it all felt distant, unreachable. A void had settled in his mind, heavy and suffocating. He felt alone, utterly alone, standing against these people who had already decided his fate.

They approached a redwood door.

Grayson stared at it, and a feeling settled in his chest—he wouldn't make it out alive. He just knew. A final-hour kind of feeling. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was where he'd finally shed his last drop of blood. Maybe this was where he'd finally draw his last breath.

The man leading him knocked twice, then entered, dragging Grayson along.

The moment he stepped inside, the rich scent of cigars and expensive liquor filled his lungs. For a split second, Grayson wanted to inhale more—to lose himself in it.

The air smelled like wealth. Tasted like the finest champagne.

Five men sat around a poker table, laughing, betting, playing their game like they had all the time in the world. They wore masks, each different but all concealing their identities.

But one mask caught Grayson's attention.

Behind it, a pair of hazel eyes.

Perez.

Grayson's heart skipped a beat—not in fear, but disappointment.

He should've known—But of course he knew!

Men like Charlie were never just men. They had connections, layers of filth hidden beneath a mask of civility. And Perez? He was no different. Maybe his temper was calmer, maybe he played the game with a little more charm—but he was the same.

Same blood. Same face. Same corruption.

Perez's eyes locked on his. The others followed, their collective gaze like a pack of wild animals, waiting for the moment to pounce.

Grayson didn't flinch.

He staggered forward as he was shoved into the center of the room, wrists still bound.

At the head of the table sat a man in a crisp three-piece suit, muscles straining beneath the expensive fabric. He raised a glass of champagne, and the others followed, cheering like they were celebrating something—like he was the main event.

Grayson met the man's gaze.

Green eyes, sharp, assessing. No malice in them, not in the way most killers had. Worse than that. They held a glint of hidden evil, carefully layered beneath a mask of charm.

Grayson had heard of men like this but had never met one in person. They were rare—the kind of criminals who never raised their voices, who smiled and nodded and fooled the world.

They were the worst kind.

Too innocent to be investigated.

Too morally upright to be suspected.

Too popular to be taken down.

They wore charity like armor, their good deeds shielding them from scrutiny. They were angels to most and demons to the unfortunate few who saw their true faces.

The man's lips curled into a smirk.

"Time flies," he mused, his voice smooth—just as Grayson had imagined. Evilly sweet.