Nicholas's car rolled to a stop outside the warehouse. The moment the engine died, the air shifted—his men straightened, fell silent, and the only sounds were the clicking of shoes on gravel as Nicholas stepped out. Clad in a charcoal suit, coat fluttering with the wind, he looked every inch the devil dressed for vengeance.
His expression was unreadable, carved in stone. But the fury… it simmered just beneath the surface, quiet and restrained like the eye of a storm waiting to be unleashed.
The heavy steel doors creaked open at his approach. He stepped inside the warehouse, his footsteps echoing ominously. The overhead bulbs buzzed to life, bathing the space in harsh, flickering light. In the center of the room sat Ryan—bloodied, tied to a metal chair, ankles and wrists bound with thick leather straps.
The smell of blood, piss, and fear lingered in the air.
Nicholas's men stood back, forming a circle around Ryan like spectators to a ritual. And in many ways, it was one.
Ryan groaned and looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. His head hung low, swollen eye nearly shut, dried blood crusting his lips. But when his one good eye focused—and he saw Nicholas—his entire body jolted.
Recognition set in like ice water to the spine.
"You," Ryan rasped, voice hoarse from screaming. "You're the bastard who… took her."
Nicholas tilted his head, regarding him like something beneath his shoe. "Took her?" he echoed, as if the word offended him. "No, Ryan. I rescued her."
Ryan laughed weakly, a broken sound that ended in a cough. "She's mine. Always was."
Nicholas's lip curled into something between disgust and amusement. He stepped closer, slow and deliberate. "Wrong again."
He removed his coat and handed it off. The silence thickened as he rolled up his sleeves, exposing the tattoo on his forearm—black ink that bled into his skin like war paint.
"You know what I hate most in this world?" he asked, voice low.
Ryan said nothing. His breathing grew shallow, panic flickering across his bruised features.
Nicholas crouched in front of him, until their eyes were level.
"Men like you," he said. "Cowards who prey on women. Who think bruises are proof of control. Who mistake fear for love."
Ryan's lip trembled. "She lied to you. She's a manipulative—"
The punch came fast. Ryan's head snapped to the side, a spray of blood misting the air. He choked, blinking rapidly as crimson drooled from his mouth.
Nicholas stood slowly, flexing his knuckles. "You don't get to talk about her."
He nodded at one of his men. A black metal case was brought forward, laid on a crate, and opened with a metallic click.
Inside: pliers, scalpels, zip ties, a soldering iron. Nothing fancy. Just the basics. Tools of correction.
Ryan's face paled.
Nicholas took his time selecting a scalpel, testing its edge with a casual swipe across his palm. A shallow cut. Controlled. Precise.
He stepped behind Ryan, gripped his chin, and made the first cut across the cheek. Not deep—but enough to sting. Blood welled up instantly.
"She cried because of you," Nicholas said, his tone cold. "And now, you'll cry because of me."
Another cut—this one tracing his collarbone. Then another, across his bicep.
Ryan screamed, the sounds echoing off the concrete walls, raw and desperate.
Nicholas didn't flinch.
He was in control. Always in control.
He worked methodically, dragging the blade just enough to leave trails of blood but not deep enough to kill. He etched memories into Ryan's flesh—every mark a reminder that Ella had survived, and Ryan would never touch her again.
"I should kill you," Nicholas said quietly, reaching for the pliers. "But she wouldn't want that."
Ryan sobbed, head lolling forward.
Nicholas grabbed his hand, pried open his fingers, and without hesitation, broke the pinky with a snap. The bone cracked audibly. Ryan screamed.
"That's for the first bruise I saw on her wrist," Nicholas whispered.
He moved to the next finger.
Snap.
"That's for the time she tried to hide the limp."
Snap.
"And that's for calling her a liar."
By the time Nicholas stepped back, Ryan's hand was a mangled mess of purple flesh and jutting bone.
Nicholas turned to the blowtorch.
Ryan's eyes went wide. "No. No—please!"
Nicholas clicked the trigger. Flame roared to life, casting flickering shadows on the walls.
"I'm not going to burn you," Nicholas said softly. "Not really. Just enough to make sure every time you move your leg, you'll remember her face. The one you bruised."
He pressed the torch to Ryan's thigh—only for two seconds. Skin sizzled, and Ryan screamed so loud one of the men flinched. The scent of burning flesh filled the air.
Nicholas turned off the torch, tossed it aside.
"I want you to feel this every time you sit. Every time you breathe."
Ryan was shaking, a mess of tears, snot, and blood.
Nicholas crouched again.
"I'm letting you live, Ryan. Because Ella would want me to. Not because you deserve mercy."
He leaned in close, eyes like winter frost.
"You're going to disappear. Tonight. Change your name. Leave this city. If you ever come near her again—hell, if I even think you've breathed her name—I will erase you so completely no one will even remember you existed."
Ryan nodded frantically, mumbling incoherent apologies.
Nicholas stood.
"Strip him," he ordered. "Leave him out on the city limits with nothing but his shame."
His men obeyed.
As Ryan was dragged away—broken, sobbing, humiliated—Nicholas finally allowed himself a breath. The fury that had driven him here still pulsed through his veins, but it had cooled. Caged.
He had kept his promise.
Barely.
Outside, the night wind was sharp and clean. Nicholas lit a cigarette with shaking fingers, the only outward sign of the emotion clawing beneath the surface.
His phone buzzed.
Ella.
He answered instantly.
"Where are you?" she asked, voice quiet.
He exhaled smoke. "Taking care of a ghost."
She hesitated. "You're not… hurt, are you?"
Nicholas paused. "Worried about me, little troublemaker?"
Her silence spoke volumes.
He softened. "No. Not hurt. Just a little smoke on my suit."
"Will you come back now?"
His chest tightened. "Yeah," he murmured. "I'm coming home."
As he slid into his car and started the engine, the warehouse behind him faded into darkness. But in his chest, something shifted.
He hadn't just avenged her.
He'd protected her.
And that mattered more than blood.
More than revenge.
It mattered because she was waiting.
And for once, he wasn't just returning to a place.
He was going home.