The basement smelled of damp concrete, iron, and old blood.
A single bulb hung from the ceiling, swaying faintly as its weak light cast long, distorted shadows across the stone walls. Chains scraped softly as the man bound to the chair shifted more of a reflex than strength. Vincent Liroux’s wrists were cuffed behind him, ankles shackled, his suit ruined beyond recognition. Blood had dried dark along his temple and jaw, one eye swollen nearly shut. Someone clearly had been thorough, but not merciful.
The metal door suddenly creaked open and a voice echoed.
“I see you managed to stay alive and wait for me.”
Maximilian’s voice cut through the silence like a blade.
He stepped into the light, still bearing the marks of the war he had won. A rough bandage covered his cheek, stained faintly
