Page 54 of Never Distract a Biker

"Threats?" I tilt my head, feigning curiosity. "I haven't made any ... yet."

"Lev," I call without breaking eye contact. The room echoes with the sound of my command. "Bring me the tools."

The heavy sound of the trolley's wheels rolling over the concrete floor reverberates in the small room. Lev maneuvers it with practiced ease, and the array of surgical instruments is laid out with clinical precision. They gleam under the harsh lighting—a silent choir of steel awaiting their conductor.

I watch the manager closely. The confident set of his shoulders sags, ever so slightly. His bravado, once a towering wall, now shows its first signs of erosion. His eyes dart to the trolley, then back to me, the sheen of sweat on his forehead catching the light.

"Please, you don't have to do this," he says, voice edged with a note of desperation he can't quite hide. His façade is cracking, crumbling like dry earth under pressure.

"Ah, but I think I do," I reply, my tone as cold as the metal that awaits his flesh. "You see, I have all night, and I am rather skilled with these tools."

His breath comes faster now, and his eyes are fixed on the sharp, polished instruments that promise pain. He knows the dance is about to change, and the next step could be a plunge into darkness from which there is no return.

My hand hovers over the sterile display. I draw out a screwdriver with a slender, menacing tip. It's an ordinary tool, yet in my grasp, it becomes an extension of my will. With a slow turn between my fingers, I inspect its gleam—admiring how even the simplest object can wield such power when applied with precision.

"Tools are much like information, aren't they?" My voice slices through the silence that has settled over us. "Useless on their own but invaluable in the right hands."

The manager's eyes flicker to the screwdriver, then back to me. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, betraying his mounting fear.

"Your silence," I continue, my tone laced with a dark promise, "is a tool you believe shields you. But as with all tools, it can be ... repurposed."

I step closer, the screwdriver's handle cool and smooth in my grasp. The manager's breath comes in jagged pulls, his eyes tracking every inch of my calculated advance. There's beauty in this moment—where fear and anticipation collide, where a man's resolve is nothing but a house of cards ready to topple at the slightest touch.

"Please," he chokes out, but please do not sway me. Words are wind; actions are stone.

"Actions have consequences," I murmur, close enough now that he can feel my breath. The steel tip of the screwdriver glints under the harsh light, a silent actor waiting for its cue. His gaze locks onto it, eyes dilating with the raw, primal terror of a cornered animal.

I sigh, almost in regret. Almost. With a swift, practiced motion, I drive the screwdriver down. Like a hot knife through butter, it sinks into flesh with sickening ease. His scream carves through the silence, the sound bouncing off the soundproof walls.

"Information," I say calmly as if we're discussing the weather rather than the possibility of his life ending tonight. "That's all I want."

I can't help the faint curl of my lips as his howl fills the room, an echo of agony that thrums through me with a perverse satisfaction. It's a twisted melody. One I've orchestrated countless times before—a dark reminder that I am not to be trifled with. I'm the conductor here, and he's just another instrument in my repertoire.

"Shall we continue?" My voice is a calm counterpoint to his screams, the stillness of deep water against the thrash of violent waves. I watch him, his body writhing in the chair, and I know he understands now. This is no idle threat; it's a promise of pain.

"Please," he gasps, sweat beading on his forehead, "no more."

"Then talk." My words are precise, sharp as the tools of my trade. The authority in them is unmistakable, a blade pointed directly at his resolve. "Tell me about the club. Tell me about their connection to my father's murder."

He hesitates, caught between fear and loyalty. But I see it—the crack in his resolve, the momentary lapse that speaks of secrets held within. I'm close now, so close to unraveling this mystery, and I will not stop. Not until the truth lies bare before me.

His chest heaves, each breath a ragged struggle as he tries to compose himself. His eyes, wide with desperation, dart from my unwavering stare to the bloodied screwdriver in my hand.

"Please," he chokes out between labored breaths. "I can't ..."

But his words trail off, unfinished, as if even he knows they're futile. He won't talk; not yet. Stubbornness clings to him like a second skin, a trait I despise and admire. It will make breaking him all the sweeter.

"Very well." My voice is steady, betraying none of the dark anticipation that simmers within me. This isn't over. Far from it. The night stretches ahead, long and full of promise. My promise—the unspoken vow that I'll peel away his defiance layer by layer until nothing remains but the truth.

I lean in close enough for him to feel my breath on his battered face. "You will talk. It's just a matter of when and how much you'll suffer before you do."

He tries to hold my gaze, but the pain is too much. His eyelids flutter, shielding his eyes from mine, but not from the terror they reflect. The terror that tells me he believes me. He should.

I straighten up, my back cracking slightly from the tension. Lev stands at the doorway, silent, waiting. He knows what comes next. We all do.

"Keep him awake." My order slices through the thick atmosphere of the room. I turn my back on the manager, and every step I take is heavy with intent. I'm ready to spend all night doing what I know best—torturing enemies until they break.

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