Taking the ss, Leo brought it to his lips, taking a slow sip before resting his hand back on the couch, still holding onto the drink with an air of quiet dominance.


    "Great. Prepare the car—we’re heading there now," Leo said, taking another sip of his whiskey. He swallowed smoothly before running his tongue along the inside of his cheek, his expression unreadable.


    Terry wasted no time, swiftly sending out the order through his phone. Momentster, one of the men stationed at the entrance stepped inside.


    "Sir, the car is ready," he reported promptly.


    Leo rose from his seat, setting the unfinished whiskey on the coffee table before striding away with an air of authority. Terry followed closely behind, swiftly opening the back seat door for him. Once Leo settled inside, Terry took his ce in the front passenger seat, and the driver immediately set off.


    After two hours of driving, their convoy arrived at what appeared to be a deserted, run-down shackpletely unassuming to the outside world. However, inside the shack was a heavily secured metal door leading underground. It was so thick and heavy that it took three of Leo’s men to lift it open.


    As soon as the door was raised wide enough, Terry took the lead, descending the hidden staircase with Leo following behind. The descent was long—five minutes down an almost ustrophobic flight of stairs—before they reached another reinforced metal door.


    Two guards stood watch from the inside and outside, their expressions impassive. At the sound of a familiar rhythmic knock, they unlocked and pulled the door open.


    Beyond the doory a stark contrast to the damp, cold exterior. The inside resembled a high-tech bunker—sleek, sterile, and temperature-controlled, more akin to a high-security vault than an underground hideout.


    The entire room was stark white—white marble floors, pristine white walls, and a ceiling just as immacte. The sterile environment contrasted sharply with Leo and his men, who stood out in their all-ck attire.


    As Leo moved deeper into the space, a chilling sound pierced the air—a bloodcurdling scream, raw and hoarse, stretching in agony.


    It was the kind of scream you’d hear in a horror thriller, the desperate wail of someone on the verge of death or as if his skin was being peeled off of him as he scream his lungs out. And truth be told, the man behind that scream wasn’t far from such a fate.


    Leo’s men were quite literally peeling their captive’s skin off, inch by inch, with a razor-sharp knife. Each delicate slice was followed by a generous handful of salt, mercilessly rubbed into the raw, exposed flesh.


    It was the very definition of adding salt to the wound—only this time, in the most excruciatingly literal sense.


    Even the guards stationed outside the torture room couldn’t help but grimace, their stomachs churning at the mere thought of the agony unfolding within.


    "FUUUCK!!! JUST KILL ME ALREADY!!!" the man bellowed, his voice raw and guttural, barely human anymore. Desperation dripped from every syble, but the one inflicting the torment remained unmoved.


    His expression was cold, detached—like a craftsman meticulously carrying out his work. There was no flicker of emotion in his eyes, no trace of hesitation in his steady hands. To him, this wasn’t personal. It was just another task toplete.


    The torturer finally set down his knife, granting the man a brief reprieve—if it could even be called that. But there was no true relief, only the relentless agony of exposed flesh seared by coarse rock salt.


    The pain was inescapable, a living fire coursing through every nerve. He tried to shift, to recoil, but the heavy chains binding him to the wall allowed little movement. His body sagged, meant to stand yet barely able to support itself.


    His wrists burned from the strain, but that agony was nothingpared to the raw, gaping wounds that marred his body.


    Strips of skin were missing from his arms, his shoulder, the side of his stomach, his legs—no pattern, no mercy, just the random cruelty of a hand that knew exactly how to prolong his suffering.


    Blood soaked his tattered clothes and dripped onto the pristine white floor beneath him, the stark contrast making the scene all the more grotesque. His face, once human, was now a horror show.


    The right side of his cheek had been peeled away, leaving raw muscle and exposed tissue where skin once belonged. He was unrecognizable—just another broken thing in the hands of a man who did not flinch while inflicting pain on others.


    Now that the torturer had set his knife down, he adjusted his gloves with an unsettling calm.


    His eyes darted over the array of tools neatlyid out on the metal table before him, as if he were carefully selecting his next instrument of torture. Each de, every implement, gleamed under the harsh white light, waiting to be wielded.


    The man chained to the wall could barely keep his eyes open, the pain weighing on him like a crushing force. Every nerve in his body screamed, and every breath felt like shards of ss cutting through his lungs.


    It was as if his very soul was being seared; the torment was so overwhelming that he wondered how his heart hadn’t already given out.


    And yet, he was still alive. Still holding on. But for what?