A terrified young girl burst through the thick morning fog, her screams piercing the air as she claimed her mother was being hurt in the woods. Her desperate plea forced a convoy of black SUVs to slam on their brakes. She had no way of knowing she had just flagged down Roman—a powerful, uncompromising man whose name was whispered with fear in the city’s darkest corners. But instead of ignoring the girl and driving on, he gave a sharp command to his men to head into the brush to find the woman.
The men who had been terrorizing this family were about to learn that a much more dangerous predator had entered the forest. The fog that morning was unnaturally low, rolling across the mountain highway like a living thing. It swallowed the wet asphalt in dense gray waves, muffling all sound and turning the ancient pines into grim silhouettes. The air smelled of damp earth and pine needles, so cold it stung the lungs with every breath.
Nothing moved until she appeared. A small figure materialized from the white haze like a ghost suddenly finding flesh and bone. Her light pink dress was torn and stained with mud that looked black in the dim light. She was running barefoot right down the center line of the road, her arms waving frantically, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps that tore at her chest.
This wasn’t a game. The girl was running for her life. Her bare feet slapped against the wet pavement, leaving faint marks that the fog quickly reclaimed. Her dark hair was matted to her face, and when she stumbled, barely catching herself on trembling hands before scrambling back up, the sound echoed like a gunshot in the absolute silence.
She kept running until the shapes of vehicles loomed ahead. Two high-end black SUVs sat idling, blocking both lanes. Their engines emitted a deep, rhythmic thrum of expensive machinery. They sat there like iron sentinels, chrome detailing glinting through the haze.
The tinted windows reflected nothing but the gray world around them. The cars looked as if they were forged from shadow and steel. The little girl didn’t hesitate; she didn’t even slow down. She ran straight toward them. Her voice broke the morning silence: “Help!” The word was raw, desperate, and heavy with terror.
“Please, someone, help!” she cried. The door of the lead vehicle opened smoothly. A man stepped out with the slow, deliberate grace of someone used to being in charge. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sharp black suit and a black shirt with the collar open. His jacket hung loose, revealing the edges of intricate tattoos that climbed his neck—symbols and patterns that told a story most people wouldn’t want to read.
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