Page 94 of Scarred Bratva King

My eyes scan the room, taking in every detail. A rusted pipe on the floor, a cracked mirror leaning against the wall, a single door bolted shut. No windows. The flickering bulb above me swings slightly, casting erratic shadows. Perfect.

I shift my weight, testing the chair’s stability. Cheap wood. Not reinforced. The kind of chair that might hold under normal use, but with enough force?—

I lean forward, the ropes biting into my skin, and then slam my body back against the wall. The chair jerks, the impact rattling my bones. Again. And again. The wood creaks in protest, splinters flying as one of the legs starts to buckle.

Sweat drips down my forehead, stinging my eyes. The pounding in my head intensifies, but I grit my teeth and keep going. Pain is just noise. You can always work through it.

The chair finally gives with a loud crack, tipping me sideways onto the floor. My shoulder takes the brunt of the impact, sending a sharp jolt down my arm, but the ropes around my wrists loosen. Good enough.

I roll onto my back, angling my wrists toward one of the jagged pieces of wood from the chair leg. The splinters tear at the ropes—and my skin—but the fibers fray bit by bit. Blood trickles down my arms, but I don’t stop.

With one last pull, the rope snaps. My hands are free. I rip the binding from my ankles, shaking off the lingering numbness in my legs. My wrists throb, raw and bleeding, but I’m free.

I stagger to my feet, grabbing the broken chair leg. It’s not much, but it’ll do as a weapon until I can get better. Whoever put me here clearly didn’t expect me to wake up this soon. Their mistake.

I move fast.

The hallway outside the room smells worse than the one I woke up in—a mix of mildew, sweat, and something acrid.

The flickering fluorescent lights overhead barely illuminate the peeling paint on the walls and the cracked linoleum beneath my boots.

Every shadow feels alive, every creak in the distance sharpens my focus. This place is crawling with guards, their voices echoing faintly down the hall.

The broken chair leg in my hand feels solid, but it’s not much against armed men. Still, a good strike to the head with enough force can level anyone.

I creep forward, my back against the wall, my steps slow and deliberate. Survival is a matter of patience and precision now.

Ahead, I hear the faint murmur of conversation—two voices. A door is slightly ajar, light spilling out into the dim hallway. I crouch low, inching forward to peek inside.

Two guards, standing by a table littered with playing cards and empty beer bottles. One of them has a gun holstered at his side; the other leans casually on the table, oblivious.

Amateurs.

I spot a rusted pipe lying against the wall near the door. Perfect. I grab it silently, testing its weight, and then step into the room, quick and quiet.

The first guard doesn’t even see me before the chair leg connects with his temple. He collapses like a sack of shit.

The second one stumbles back, reaching for his gun, but I’m faster. I lunge forward, grabbing his wrist and twisting it until I hear the crack of bone. His scream is cut short when the pipe swings up from my other hand into his jaw, sending him crashing into the table.

I pause for a moment, listening for any signs that the noise attracted attention. Nothing yet.

I grab the holstered gun from the first guard and check the clip. Half-full—not ideal, but better than nothing. I tuck it into the back of my waistband and move on.

At the end of the hallway, I spot two more guards patrolling. They’re talking in low tones, distracted, their rifles slung lazily over their shoulders.

I slip into a shadowed alcove, crouching low. A discarded piece of debris—a jagged chunk of concrete—catches my eye. I pick it up, weighing it in my hand, then hurl it toward the far corner of the hallway.

The guards react instantly, their rifles snapping up as they move toward the sound. I wait until they pass my hiding spot, then step out behind them.

The first one drops after a swift strike to the back of the neck. The second turns, wide-eyed, but I’m already on him, slamming him into the wall. His rifle clatters to the ground as my fist connects with his jaw. He slumps, unconscious.

I take the rifle, slinging it over my shoulder, and keep moving. The sound of footsteps in the distance puts me on edge, but I manage to avoid detection, slipping into shadowed corners.

I find myself at a staircase leading down. The air grows colder and heavier, the dampness of the building seeping into my skin.

The voices are louder now—more guards, no doubt. I grip the rifle tightly, my jaw clenched.

I’ve made it this far.No one’s stopping me from getting out of here.

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