Ayla sat alone in the cold cell—if you could even call it that. No bars, just steel walls and a glass door that slid open only when someone came for her. No windows. No clock. Only silence and the buzz of power overhead.
She didn't cry. Not anymore. Not when everything inside her already felt scraped raw.
Footsteps echoed.
She looked up.
Riva entered, but she wasn't alone. A tall, broad-shouldered man followed her. He wore an expensive black suit, his silver hair swept back, his expression unreadable.
His presence filled the room like a stormfront.
"Her," he said, the moment his eyes met Ayla's.
Riva raised an amused brow. "You want her?"
"I'll take her," he replied simply.
"She's not cheap."
He handed over a slim briefcase. "Nothing I own is."
Ayla's blood froze.
The man looked at her with quiet interest, like he was trying to figure out what she reminded him of. But there was no recognition in his gaze—only intrigue.
Riva opened the case, glanced inside, and smiled. "She's yours."
The man stepped closer, crouching before Ayla. "What's your name?"
She didn't answer.
He smirked. "You don't have to tell me. I'll find out eventually."
And then he was gone—with her.
⸻
Leon
Leon paced the room like a caged animal.
"She's not there," Victor said, holding up a tapped audio log. "Riva sold her. A private exchange."
Leon stopped cold. "To who?"
Victor hesitated. "No name. Just a title."
Leon's voice dropped. "Say it."
"The Viper."
Silence stretched.
Leon's hand curled into a fist.
The Viper.
His oldest enemy. The man responsible for half the scars on his back. The man whose death he'd once sworn under a blood moon.
Leon's eyes darkened.
"She's in his hands."
Victor looked up. "What do we do?"
Leon stepped into the dark, eyes burning. "We go to war."