Chapter 4 - The Interrogation Room That Doesn't ExistMarcus and Chloe were not taken to a police precinct.
Instead, they were dragged blindfolded into the back of a soundproofed, unmarked logistics van. When the hoods were finally yanked off their heads, they found themselves seated across from each other at a cold steel table inside a windowless, subterranean bunker that reeked of damp earth, ozone, and old iron.
There were no cameras. There were no mirrors. There was only a single overhead halogen bulb casting a harsh, blinding glare onto their terrified faces.
Sitting at the head of the table was Richard Vance. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, faded scars running along his forearms—remnants of a life he had supposedly abandoned twenty years ago.
"Where... where are we?" Chloe whimpered, clutching her arms as the chill of the bunker bit into her skin. "This is illegal! You can't just snatch us off the street! I want a lawyer!"
"A lawyer," Marcus muttered, his voice trembling as he stared at my father’s hands. Marcus finally recognized the insignia tattooed faintly on the inside of my father's wrist—a stylized raven clutching a silver key. It was the crest of the Vance Syndicate, a global security and intelligence syndicate that governments pretended didn't exist. "You’re... you’re the Ghost of the North. People say you died in Zurich."
My father didn't confirm or deny it. He simply opened a thick manila folder and slid two documents across the metal table.
"Sign these," my father said softly.
Marcus leaned forward, squinting at the papers under the harsh light. As his eyes scanned the text, all the remaining color drained from his face until he looked like a corpse.
"Transfer of assets... relinquishment of all property rights... total dissolution of the marriage... and a full confession of kidnapping, attempted murder, and financial fraud," Marcus read aloud, his voice breaking into a panicked high-pitched whine. "Are you out of your mind?! This gives you everything! Every cent of my company, every property, my car, my bank accounts—you're leaving me destitute!"
"Destitute is a generous word for someone who is about to disappear from the census records entirely," my father replied smoothly, pulling a sleek silver fountain pen from his pocket and placing it squarely on top of the contract.
"I won't sign it!" Marcus yelled, slamming his palms onto the table. "You can't force me! The police will find us! The neighbors saw—"
"The neighbors saw nothing," a cold voice interrupted from the doorway. Detective Miller stepped out of the shadows, holding a thick stack of paperwork. He tossed a fresh set of documents onto the table next to Marcus. "In fact, according to the official police log filed ten minutes ago, Marcus Sterling’s residence suffered a catastrophic gas leak. A tragic explosion leveled the entire property. Unfortunately, Marcus and his guest were inside when it detonated. Dental records will be... difficult to match, but we'll make sure something passes inspection."
Marcus stared at Detective Miller in sheer horror. "You... you're going to kill us?"
"Kill you?" My father let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Killing you would be a mercy, Marcus. No. You are going to sign those papers, and then Viktor is going to take you to a freight freighter bound for the deepest, most isolated logging camps in northern Siberia. You will work there under a false name until your debts are paid—which, given your lack of physical endurance, will probably be about forty years."
Chloe burst into hysterical, uncontrollable tears, sliding out of her chair and collapsing onto the concrete floor at my father’s feet.
"Please! Mr. Vance! Please! It was all his idea!" Chloe wailed, grabbing the hem of my father’s trousers. "He told me his wife abandoned him! He lied to me! I didn't know about the cage! I swear to God, I didn't know!"
My father looked down at her with absolute disgust, as if she were a worm writhing in the dirt. He didn't even bother to push her away; he simply gestured with two fingers, and Viktor hauled her back up by her hair, slamming her back into her chair.
"You wore my daughter's clothes," my father said, his voice dropping an octave, vibrating with lethal intent. "You slept in her bed. You laughed while she bled in the dark beneath your feet. Ignorance is not a defense, Miss Miller. It is merely a lack of imagination."
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Marcus looked at the pen, then at Chloe, and finally at the cold, dead eyes of the retired kingpin sitting across from him. He knew there was no escape. There was no loophole. There was only the abyss.
With trembling, broken fingers, Marcus picked up the pen.
