But Thomas didn't relent. He needed to believe there was still a way out.
He repeated his threats louder, angrier, throwing out nas, codes, high-level contacts—anything that might spark fear or hesitation.
But Ross simply kept walking, unbothered, his pace calm and unwavering.
They reached a secure door.
Ross paused, his hand pressing against the scanner. With a soft beep and a hiss, it slid open.
Inside, the lights were dim, casting a warm glow on the small, clean room.
There, lying curled up on the huge bed, was Jade.
Her chest rose and fell gently with sleep. She was untouched by all of this—safe. For now.
Ross gazed at her quietly.
"She didn't let down," he murmured to himself, almost fondly. "Still untouched. Still pure."
Then he turned to Thomas, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"But you?" Ross said, voice dropping into sothing cold and sharp. "You had entertained for a while. I'll give you that."
He chuckled softly. The kind of laugh you hear when the joke has ended and the consequences begin.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing Jade off from the horrors to co.
He'd make sure she rembered none of this.
There was no need to burden her with trauma she didn't deserve. She was innocent.
Thomas, on the other hand?
He would carry every mory—every second—until the very end.
Ross turned toward the next door. It was plain, unmarked, ominously silent.
He placed his hand on it, and it opened for him like the maw of so beast inviting its master in.
Without a word, Ross stepped through.
Thomas followed, still paralyzed, still floating—a condemned man unable even to resist his own execution.
He passed through the threshold like a corpse being delivered to its coffin.
The door slid shut behind them with a final, echoing hiss.
And in that room—sealed away from the world—justice would not be found.
Only punishnt.
Thud!
Thomas slamd into the far wall with the force of an invisible hand, his body sticking there like a trapped insect beneath glass.
His limbs refused to budge. It was as if he'd been fused to the wall itself—helpless, paralyzed, and entirely at Ross's rcy.
The door behind them whispered shut, the soft hiss of compressed air sealing off the world outside.
They were alone now. There would be no escape. No witnesses. No help.
Ross ignored him for a mont, stretching his arms above his head before leaping effortlessly onto the room's pristine bed.
He sighed in genuine pleasure as he sank into the premium mattress, running his fingers over the finely woven sheets.
"Mmm… high thread count. Custom foam. Reinforced fra.
They didn't spare any expense, did they?" Ross murmured, lying back with the satisfaction of a king in his palace. "Governnt money really is magic."
He turned his head and looked at Thomas, still glued to the wall like a man-sized painting of defeat.
The sharp suit. The clenched jaw. The storm behind those eyes.
Thomas was still trying to move—Ross could see the tension in his neck, the twitching of muscle trying to rebel against whatever unnatural force bound him.
"You look ridiculous, you know," Ross said casually, resting an arm behind his head.
"All that training. All that discipline. And now? You're just… decor. Very expensive decor, mind you. But still."
Thomas could speak—barely.
"You won't get away with this," he growled, his voice thick with restrained rage. "They'll co for you."
Ross smirked, not even bothering to sit up. "Oh, I'm counting on it. But they'll be too late, of course. They always are."
His smile faded, replaced by sothing colder.
"The U.S. governnt," he said thoughtfully, as if savoring the na.
"It looks like I'll have to shake their tree a little harder. Cause a few cracks in their little illusion of control. I've been too lenient lately. Ti to fix this issue permanently this ti."
He stood, suddenly serious, his footsteps soundless on the floor as he approached Thomas.
"Now, let's talk about you."
Ross stopped just in front of him, so close Thomas could feel the subtle heat radiating off his body, the strange pressure that seed to distort the air around him.
"Thomas Trump," Ross said, his voice low, deliberate.
"Brilliant young lawyer. First in your class. Topped the bar with a perfect score. You were supposed to change the world—make headlines, sit on the Supre Court one day."
He tilted his head, eyes gleaming with sothing unreadable.
"But the world changed you, didn't it? You offended the wrong people. You played your ga too close to the fire. The mafia took notice. And in the end, your family paid the price."
Thomas's face darkened. The ntion of that night brought a flicker of sothing into his eyes—pain, loss, hatred.
"A car bomb," Ross continued softly, like a bedti story. "Mom. Dad. Your girl. All gone. In one second. Just like that."
He snapped his fingers for emphasis.
"Boom."
Ross's tone turned wistful, even sympathetic.
"You wanted justice. But there wasn't any. So you beca sothing else. Traded in your law books for guns. Entered the Special Forces. Killed your way to revenge. You beca the governnt's favorite weapon."
Ross gave a soft laugh.
"Pity. All that rage, all that effort… and here you are. Stuck to a wall, like a poster of a man who used to matter. But since your n gave a bracelet before, it's my turn to give you a gift. Two of them."
He paused, stepping back slightly, just enough to gesture with a casual flick of his wrist.
The air shimred.
A mont later, they arrived—two stunning won who seed to materialize from nothing, their beauty so surreal it made the room feel colder by contrast.
They stood with unnatural grace, eyes empty of life and then with every breath after, their eyes blinked as if confused at their surroundings.
Ross turned toward them with the ease of a man stepping into a long-planned performance.
"I've been thinking," he said slowly. "Torture is an art, Thomas. And every artist needs a muse."
He turned back toward his captive, smiling.
"Let's see how long that strong little mind of yours lasts."
User Comments
0 comments from readers