They had moved to a soundproofed and sealed room, tucked deep within the Bai Manor's underground level—the kind of room you only found in estates where powerful men planned for betrayal long before it happened.
Kai sat in the center of it, restrained. A military-grade chair bolted to the ground, his wrists cuffed in an adaptive alloy that adjusted to twitch-level motion. His lip was split. Right eye already darkening from the bruise. One arm hung lower—dislocated or worse.
Lucas stood across from him, deceptively relaxed, flipping a knife between his fingers. Every slow rotation of the blade was practiced, silent, and deliberate.
"Comfortable?" Lucas asked lightly.
Kai coughed once. The sound was rough. Dry. "Your hospitality could use work."
Lucas tilted his head. "Funny. That's what the last guy said. He's dead without a tomb.."
"I'm not him."
"No," Lucas said. "You're dumber. He ran. You walked in."
