Clayton awoke to the sound of dripping water echoing in a dim, concrete room. Cuffed to a rusty pipe overhead, his feet barely grazed the cold floor beneath him. His muscles ached, and his eyes stung, the light and shadows blending into a disorienting haze.

Across the room sat Philip, bruised and indifferent, an ice pack pressed lazily to his neck. His soulless, glazed eyes looked through Clayton without concern. Martha perched on a chair nearby, filing her nails with unnerving calm, as if the room wasn't saturated with tension.

Clayton's mind struggled to focus. Was he drugged? Heroin, perhaps? He flexed his fingers, trying to summon clarity. Philip's voice broke through the fog like a blade slicing skin.

"Maybe I'll have her after I kill you then Richard," Philip said, a cruel smirk twisting his face. "Fuck her with your blood on my hands. What Carlos doesn't know won't hurt him."

Martha glanced up, her lips curved in a faint, knowing smile.

"Don't you fucking touch her!" Clayton growled, his voice raw and trembling. The mere thought of Alice in Philip's grasp sent a wave of jealousy crashing over him, his fists straining against the handcuffs, rage spilling over like a bursting dam.

Philip didn't flinch. His taunts were deliberate, surgical in their cruelty, as he circled the room with slow, measured steps. "She's mine now, Clayton. She might even prefer me to you. Why wouldn't she?"

Clayton's narrowed eyes followed Philip like a predator watching prey, his body trembling with suppressed fury. "Philip, I swear to god. Touch her, and you're dead."

Philip's smirk widened, the venom dripping from his voice. "Oh, I won't kill her. Not yet. I promise. I'll make sure she remembers me for years."

The rage erupted. Clayton thrashed against the pipe, his screams splitting the room like a crack of thunder. Three armed men surged forward, punching and kicking him into submission. Martha stood abruptly, turning her face away, pale and visibly shaken.

Through gasps of pain, Clayton turned his desperate gaze to her. "Martha, listen to me. This isn't you. He's using you. Think of your fucking unborn baby for fuck sake."

Martha hesitated, confusion flickering across her face, but Philip cut her off with a sharp, "Shut up," silencing her before she could respond. Clayton coughed, his ribs aching, the taste of copper thick on his tongue.

The hires surrounding him jeered, emboldened by their advantage. One held a knife—Clayton's knife, stolen from his pocket. He waved it mockingly. "Not so tough now, huh? Thought you were some big-shot killer."

Clayton's lips twisted into a grim smile, his mind racing. The pipe creaked under the strain as he lifted his knees, forcing his weight against it. With a groan of protest, the pipe snapped free, sending him sprawling to the floor as Philip and Martha quickly took their leave.

The hires froze in panic, their hesitation filling the air like static electricity. Confusion rippled through the room as all four stepped back instinctively.

Clayton twisted his wrists, tugging against the cuffs that dug deep into his skin. He flexed his fingers to stop the numbing ache spreading through them. It didn't matter. Adrenaline would carry him through.

He steadied his breath, surveying the men who began circling him with predatory caution. They were young, unsure—most likely hired from Colombia or Venezuela, he decided, by someone who liked to keep things cheap but expendable.

"Leave now," he warned, his voice low, his presence solidifying like stone. The calm washing over him was dangerous, almost unnerving, even to himself. "This isn't a fight you want to finish."

He wasn't bluffing. He squared his stance, his chest rising with deliberate control as every second tightened the knot of tension.

One of them scoffed, his accent thick and sharp, his greasy hair slicked back. "Four against one?" He smirked. "You're done, amigo."

Clayton's eyes narrowed. "No. One of you will try. Two will hesitate, too scared to commit. And the last one..." He glanced around the group, deliberately slow, deliberately threatening. "Will run—or piss himself. The only thing left to decide is... who'll be first?"

The cocky one snapped, his bravado brittle with rage. He lunged, his motion reckless, and Clayton spotted the glint of the knife instantly. Bound by the cuffs, Clayton sidestepped, his movements as calculated as they were desperate.

The man wheeled back around like a wild bull, his fury blinding him. Clayton shifted fast, his hands gripping the greasy shirt and tearing it apart. As his opponent stumbled backward, Clayton seized the knife with no hesitation and drove it deep into the man's chest.

The sickening, gurgling sounds of death filled the space. Clayton suppressed the grimace threatening to creep across his face—it never got easier, no matter how often he'd heard it. Blood bubbled from the man's lips as the hires froze, watching their comrade collapse. The disbelief etched across their faces was haunting.

Fear spread through the room, thick and tangible. The remaining three looked at Clayton, their trembling hands betraying their false attempts at bravery. They were already beaten.

Smart, his subconscious hissed, slamming against the cage he'd built to keep his darker instincts locked away. He ignored it—for now.

One of them stepped forward, fumbling to unlock the cuffs. Without speaking, they handed him a phone, his car keys, and the duffel bag. No loyalty—not among cowards.

Snapping back into reality, they handed him a phone, his keys and the duffel bag.

Loyalty my ass! His thought's teased him.

One of them stood forward, unlocking the cuffs. Clayton finally could breathe again. His body still throbbing in pain.

All he wanted after this, was go to the beach with Alice, get high and enjoy a rest. He craved it.

He dialed Alice's number. He had been watching Alice for so long that he memorized it to the last digit.

No answer.

Fuck!

***

Clayton slipped into the shadows, moving with quiet urgency until he found the Jeep. Climbing into the driver's seat, he exhaled sharply, the air heavy with frustration and dread. His fingers fumbled for his phone, dialing Daniel's number, the past tensions over Ruth still fresh in his mind.

"Hey, man?" Daniel's voice was casual, oblivious, as Clayton fired up the engine. The Jeep roared to life, launching into the flow of Rio traffic like a predator on the hunt.

"Dan!" Clayton's voice cracked, raw with panic. "Where the hell is Alice?" His grip tightened on the wheel as he weaved through the chaos of the city.

"Alice? She should still be at the house. I'm at the hospital. What's going on?" Concern bled into Daniel's words, faint but rising.

"She's not safe, damn it! Get her to the embassy—now!" Clayton's heart pounded as he pressed harder on the gas, the Jeep groaning in protest.

"Okay, okay, I'll handle it. I'll get Augustine to check on her. Give me ten minutes." Daniel sounded rattled now, the weight of Clayton's urgency sinking in.

Clayton didn't respond. The call ended with a sharp tap, leaving only the Jeep's strained engine and his own relentless determination to fill the silence. The city blurred past him as he raced toward the house, each second carving deeper into the knot of desperation in his chest.

*******

Clayton's car screeched to a halt, the acrid stench of burnt rubber still clinging to the air as he bolted toward the house. The black door stood as an unyielding barrier—until it wasn't. He shattered it with a single blow, shards of glass ricocheting around him.

"Alice!" he bellowed, the name tearing out of his lungs.

The splintered frame bit into his bloodied fingers as he clawed his way inside, desperation propelling him into the chaos of the living room. Panic coiled tighter with each unchecked room—Sam's bedroom, barren; the bathroom, eerily silent. Everywhere, nothing.

Until he saw it.

A distorted, bloodied handprint marred the doorframe. Too large to belong to Alice. His gaze darted under the bed. Behind the door. Useless. His breath hitched, sharp with frustration and fear.

Then the scent hit him. A foreign, woody trail of tobacco. He growled under his breath, "I told her to fucking hide!"

"She's not here, Clayton," a calm, feminine voice startled him from behind.

He spun, instinctively ready to pounce, every muscle in his body taut. A woman stepped forward, undeterred.

"Augustine," she introduced herself, eyes steady. "Alice wasn't here when I arrived. So I waited. For you."

His pulse thundered as his eyes swept the room for any sign of Alice. That's when he saw it—the delicate gleam of platinum on the counter, sullied with crusted blood. He staggered over, the weight in his chest unbearable, his steps slowing as he approached.

Alice's engagement ring.

He picked it up, the heirloom resting coldly in his palm. His fingers curled around it, his failure pressing down like a vise. He was losing her, losing this battle. No trail. No leads. Just a ghost. And now Alice.

No.

He inhaled sharply, determination steeling his spine. "Richard's hiding. Fredrick knows where."

Augustine nodded, almost as if reading his mind. "I know where they're heading." She pulled her phone out, fingers dancing over the screen.

"Curitiba," she said, enlarging the map and pointing. Clayton leaned closer, staring at the glowing city on her screen, a fresh surge of purpose surging through him.

Before he could react, his phone buzzed violently in his pocket. He froze. It was a FaceTime call. The contact: Alice.

Heart hammering, he answered.

The screen filled with chaos. Alice—bloodied, bound, and trapped between Vanessa and Martha in the back of a limousine. Duct tape muffled her cries as the two women mocked her, their hands brushing her exposed arms. Martha suddenly slapping Alice hard, the sound cracking like a whip over the speakers as Alice cowered.

And there, beside her, sat Philip. His once-pristine arrogance marred by a mangled ear and deep scratches that painted his face and neck. He smirked.

"Good girl, Alice," Clayton's mind whispered, fury flickering behind the words.

"You're scared of water, aren't you, love?" Philip's voice oozed cruelty as Alice shuddered.

Martha slapped Alice hard across the face again, making her flinch. The sheer violence of it burned in Clayton's chest. Be brave, babe. I'm coming.

Philip's smile widened as he leaned closer to the camera. "How fast can you get to Curitiba, Clayton? Don't waste time. Helena's blade is...special. And you wouldn't want her swimming after she's been cut by it."

"No!" Clayton roared, the image of Alice's tear-streaked face seared into his vision.

The call cut out. Clayton's hands crushed the phone into useless fragments, fury surging through him. Augustine gasped behind him, startled.

His voice, though tight with rage, was measured. "Ruth. Sam. Daniel. Augustine, you think you can find Fredrick? We're going to Curitiba and I need answers. Gather weapons. Guns for hire. Whoever wants to fight, bring them. But Philip..." His voice dropped to a deadly whisper. "...is mine."