A small flame flared up, illuminating his sharp jawline and the cold, unblinking eyes that had ruled the city for decades.

He lit a cigarette, took a slow drag, and let the smoke drift up toward the brick ceiling.

“You won’t do that,” Vincent said, his voice entirely calm.

“Because if you do, I will ensure it takes you three days to die.”

“And I am a man of my word.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Paul’s chest was heaving against my back, his heart hammering like a trapped bird.

He looked at the entrance of the tunnel, then back at Vincent, searching for a way out.

But there was none.

From behind Vincent, two more shadows emerged from the darkness.

They were large men, their hands buried in the pockets of their heavy coats, their faces expressionless.

One of them held a silenced pistol, pointed directly at Paul’s head.

Paul’s grip on my neck began to slip as the reality of his situation set in.

He was completely outmatched, cornered like a rat in the very sewers he had tried to use for his escape.