He paused, pressing his palm flat against the cool brick of a building wall, and let his eyes close for just a moment. Just one breath. One second of silence before he had to face the apartment again.

The cloth came from nowhere.

A damp, sickly-sweet smell flooded his senses. His eyes snapped open, but there was no one to see. Only the world tilting sideways, the streetlights smearing into streaks of orange and black. He tried to fight, tried to twist, but his limbs were already turning to lead.

Then nothing.

The first thing Y/n registered was the cold. Damp and biting, seeping through the fabric of his jeans. The second was the darkness—so thick it felt like a weight pressing against his eyes. He blinked, trying to focus, but shapes only swam in and out of view.

A single bulb swayed somewhere above, casting weak, sickly light across a concrete room. The walls were stained with water damage. The air smelled like rust and mildew and something else. Something metallic.

Then he saw him.

His father, on his knees. Face swollen, split lip dripping blood onto the floor. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and his shirt was torn, revealing mottled bruises blooming across his ribs. He was hardly recognizable.

A man stood over him.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. The dark, tailored three-piece suit he wore was immaculate, untouched by the filth of the room. A cigar burned slowly between his fingers, a thin ribbon of smoke curling toward the ceiling. His face was calm, unreadable. Almost bored.

Peter looked up. His battered face split into a grin, broken teeth stained with red.

T-take my son! His voice cracked, desperate, pathetic. Take him! He works! He'll repay the debt and I'll work too!

Y/n's stomach dropped. He tried to move, to speak, but his body wouldn't respond.

H-he'll be collateral!

The words hung in the air, ugly and final. Y/n stared at his father, searching for some flicker of guilt or shame. There was none. Only relief.

The man—Demetri—took a slow drag from his cigar. Smoke curled from his lips as he finally spoke, his voice low and deep, cutting through the silence like a blade.

Fine.

He turned, the heel of his polished shoe catching Peter's ribs in a single, casual kick. The older man crumpled with a strangled grunt, but Demetri didn't even look back. He walked toward the door, hand pausing on the handle.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, slid to the shadow in the corner. Emiliano. Large, silent, watching.

Bring the kid.