Screams and moans echoed through the corridors of the abandoned building, bouncing off crumbling walls like ghosts refusing to rest. It sounded like hell had opened up a pit right in the center of the place.
Down a dark hallway, one door stood open. Light flooded out, casting jagged shadows that danced wildly on the peeling walls.
The moans turned into guttural groans, then full-throated screams—loud enough to make even the dead plug their ears.
A naked, dark-skinned man lay slumped in a tub filled with ice water. His arms were bound with thick rope, and three fingers were missing from his right hand. Blood dripped steadily into the melting ice. He was tall—at least 6'4"—but broken down, covered in bruises and lacerations. His face was so swollen it was barely recognizable.
Five shadowy figures stood around him, each cast long and crooked by the overhead lights. They were positioned like predators over a fallen animal, all eyes on him.
The man drifted in and out of consciousness, trying to focus. Then, without warning, another blow.
"I'm not asking again, motherfucker—where is the fucking money?" barked a young Black man, standing over the tub. His face was twisted in rage, eyes burning.
Without hesitation, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a knife, and sliced through the ropes. Grabbing the man by a clump of hair, he dragged him out of the tub and over broken glass and twisted metal. Then he lifted a splintered leg of a chair and brought it down again and again.
The man didn't even have the strength to scream anymore.
Where his manhood once was, there was nothing but a cauterized wound—a brutal sign this wasn't the start of the torture, just the end.
"WHERE... IS... THE... FUCKING... MONEY?!" the young man roared, each word punctuated by another strike.
Behind him, no one moved. The others didn't dare interrupt the rage in front of them. They knew one wrong move could shift the target.
The man on the floor curled into a fetal position, trying to shield himself. Bruises darkened, blood pooled. Eventually, the young man, sweating and heaving, stepped back. His hands were red with blood. His chest rose and fell in erratic bursts as he stared down at what used to be a father figure.
This man had raised him in the streets, taught him how to count and read when no school gave a damn. Taught him how to survive. He had been family once.
But now? Now he was just another traitor in the gang system. And traitors didn't get to walk away.
A small, feminine grunt caught the young man's attention. Behind him sat a girl, watching with an eerie smile.
"Just kill me already, you little bitch," the broken man rasped. "I don't know where the money is... the books don't lie."
The young man looked at him, anger and pity swirling in his eyes. He wanted to believe him. He wanted this not to be what it was. But there was no room for mercy.
"But you do," he muttered.
Then he drew a black Glock and fired three times.
The shots echoed down the hallway like a curse.
Silence returned. The others stood still. The body lay unmoving, blood pooling beneath it.
The young man lowered the gun and stared for a moment, almost like he was praying. Then he turned and headed for the door.
"Ezzy, Jac—clean this up. Ash, let's ride. Conie, come with me," he said as he stepped out into the hallway.
"Alright, Dee," Conie replied, jogging to catch up.
Dee walked with purpose, the corridor stretching into shadow.
"So what do you wanna talk about?" Conie asked, walking beside him, her voice playful but curious.
"I want you to look into the missing money. Something doesn't add up—it smells like a setup. The old man might've been telling the truth... and if he was, someone in our system's lying. We find out who—or it's all our heads."
"Got it. Where do you want me to start? The books? The routes?"
"Neither," Dee said, stopping at the base of the stairs. "Start with him."
Conie blinked. "Him?"
"You know who I mean. You're obsessed with him anyway. He helped run the numbers. If there's a trail, he's in it. We don't have time to play favorites. Find it."
Conie nodded, trying to suppress a grin. "Okie dokie."
Dee and Ashy exited through a side door, silent as they approached a parked black El Grand van.
"Dee," Ashy said after a moment, "what if it turns out AI was skimming from the top? What then?"
Dee didn't answer right away. Then he made a simple gesture—gun to the head, pull the trigger.
"He's been dead for months," Dee said flatly. "If we can't fix it, we're next."
Ashy nodded and climbed into the van with him.
The only sound now was the engine rumbling and the whisper of the vents blowing stale air.
[One Hour Later]
Dee closed the door to his apartment. He tossed his keys into a dish, threw his coat on a hook, and walked into the kitchen. He set the Glock on the counter, removed the clip, and cleared the chamber with practiced ease.
Opening the fridge, he grabbed a water bottle and a pre-made meal. But just as he turned, his phone buzzed.
He sighed, picked it up, and answered.
"Yeah?"
"Hey, Cuzzo. It's me. How's the family?" a deep voice asked on the other end.
Dee froze. This was the last person he expected—or wanted—to hear from.
Because if he was calling... things were about to get complicated.