Somewhere in Lanche County, 8:15 PM, same day....
Don leaned back on his seat, the air around him heavy with smoke and tension.
His chiselled features were carved into a mask of cold indifference as he assessed the slightly trembling man seated across the table from him.
This man–an averagely mature sleaze bag with thinning, greasy hair that clung to his scalp like it resented being there– had chosen to betray his own boss for a shorter sentence and a thicker wallet.
But one thing he failed to realise is that he was talking to a devil, who had already decided his fate from the moment he walked in.
"Who else did he contact?" Don asked in a low, deadly tone, lazily peeling his gaze from the sleaze bag to the muscular security guard standing behind the man, awaiting his next nonverbal action.
"Stark Romero." The man wiped the beads of sweat on his forehead, his pounding heart threatening to leap out of his chest at any second as he sensed the danger looming behind him.
