Chapter 1: Ice and Shattered Trust

Iskander scanned the dim warehouse chamber once more before settling his attention fully on the pair. Elara occupied the steel chair dead center under the single overhead bulb that hummed faintly. Thick leather straps pinned her wrists to the armrests, ankles to the legs, and a broad band crossed her torso right below her chest. She faced Victor exactly five meters opposite, close enough for her to watch every twitch on his face. He matched her setup perfectly, body rigid in the bindings that dug into skin already slick with sweat.

He stepped into the harsh spotlight between them. The light caught the edges of his polished shoes as he adjusted his cufflinks with deliberate flicks. Why bother with such details now? Habits from cleaner deals lingered, even here where blood would soon stain everything. Iskander fixed his gaze on Victor, letting silence stretch until the man's breathing quickened noticeably.

His voice came out low and precise, each word measured for impact. "Your execution starts simple, Victor. We lower you into ice water first. Hours of it, until your core temperature drops enough that pain receptors slow down." He watched Victor's eyes widen slightly, pupils dilating under the strain. Iskander had seen this reaction before, always the same futile grasp at denial. Bodies betrayed thoughts every time.

Victor shifted against his restraints, leather creaking softly. Iskander ignored the sound and continued. "Once numbness sets in, we move to your fingers. A hydraulic press waits nearby, the kind used for crushing scrap metal. We feed them in one by one. Bones shatter under pressure that builds slow at first, then spikes without mercy." He let that image hang, picturing the press's jaws closing methodically. Victor had always prided himself on those hands, deft enough to reroute funds unnoticed for years. Fitting end, really.

Iskander paused then circled behind Victor's chair, footsteps echoing off concrete walls. The man's back tensed as Iskander leaned in close, breath warm against his ear. "Electrocution follows. We soak the ropes binding your limbs first, make sure current flows deep through muscle and nerve." He straightened up, resuming his slow pace around the chair. Victor's shoulders jerked once, as if testing the ropes already. Pointless. Iskander knew these chairs held even during seizures.

He stopped facing Victor again and leveled his accusation. "You siphoned fifty million credits from the city accounts over two years. Every transfer traced back through your access logs." Iskander recalled the audit reports, lines of code highlighting Victor's digital fingerprints. Trust had blinded him initially, but numbers never lied. Victor worked directly under him, privy to every backdoor and shadow deal. Betrayal like that cut deeper than any blade.

Iskander turned his head toward Elara for the briefest moment. Her chest heaved under the strap, fabric of her blouse clinging where sweat soaked through. She met his eyes, lips parted as if words fought to escape. He swung back to Victor. "Both of you leaked surveillance codes to enemy syndicates. Three operations compromised because of it. Raids hit empty warehouses, shipments vanished mid-route." Memories flooded in of those nights, enforcers returning empty-handed while rivals grew bold. Elara had handled the codes' distribution, her role in logistics giving her perfect cover. Together they eroded his edges, piece by piece.

Elara thrashed suddenly against her restraints. Veins bulged along her neck, pulsing visibly as she screamed Victor's name over and over. The chair rocked slightly under her efforts, but straps held firm. Iskander watched her struggle, noting how her thighs strained against the ankle binds, skirt riding up just enough to expose pale skin marked by faint bruises from capture. Her desperation carried a raw edge that stirred something low in him, though he kept his face impassive.

She kept shouting, voice cracking now. "Take it all! Our entire slush fund, twenty million credits hidden in offshore accounts. I give you locations right now." Iskander tilted his head, listening as she rattled off account numbers from memory, strings of digits that matched intel his team already pulled. She thought money fixed this? He almost laughed. Funds came and went in his world, but loyalty? That stayed broken forever.

Elara pushed on, reciting safety deposit box numbers at Central Vault 7 and the East Branch. "Immediate access codes included. Everything transfers the second you release us." Her words tumbled faster, breath hitching between phrases. Iskander crossed his arms, considering her offers. Properties next—she listed five titles in her name: three warehouses on the industrial fringe, two safehouses tucked in residential zones, plus a fleet of unmarked vehicles garaged nearby. "Instant transfer upon release. All yours."

He allowed a thin smile to form, more reflex than amusement. Money meant coverage for losses, sure, but this went beyond arithmetic. Victor's gaze darted between them, hope flickering briefly in his eyes before reality crushed it again. Iskander nodded once, decisive. His hand slipped inside his jacket pocket, fingers closing around the grip of the heavy-caliber revolver. He drew it out smooth, metal catching the light as he set it down on the scarred table midway between the chairs.

"You shoot him point-blank, Elara. Right here." Iskander tapped the table's surface near the gun. "Or you join him in death."

The weight of that choice hung thick in the air, her eyes locked on the revolver while Victor's pleas started up faint and ragged. Iskander stepped back slightly, arms folding again as he waited to see which path her survival instinct carved next.