Unknown Location | 2:14 AM
A sharp, searing pain throbbed at the back of Kiaan's skull as he groaned, consciousness trickling back like blood through a narrow wound. His breathing was shallow—erratic at first—until instinct kicked in.
He was kneeling on cold concrete, arms tied tightly behind his back with what felt like coarse nylon rope. The air around him smelled of rust, damp earth, and something faintly metallic—blood.
A single, dim overhead bulb flickered like a heartbeat. The room was silent… except for the drip… drip… drip… of a leaking pipe nearby.
Kiaan (gritting his teeth softly): "Shit…"
He winced as he tilted his head. His vision swayed. Pain pulsed violently through the back of his skull—the memory came back in flashes.
Walking along the road… talking to Tara…
A sudden sound—
Turning—
Black.
He had been hit from behind. Ambushed. Silently. Efficiently.
Kiaan (to himself): "The killer… he must've seen me."
That's when he heard it.
Footsteps.
Measured. Slow. Not trying to hide.
From the shadowed edge of the room emerged a figure. Masked. Dressed in dark, unbranded tactical gear. No insignias. No ID. Every inch of him screamed calculated anonymity.
Kiaan's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening despite the sting in his head.
Killer (calm, almost amused): "You weren't supposed to be part of this. But you made yourself… seen."
Kiaan (scoffing): "You don't know who you just tied up, freak."
The masked man tilted his head, crouching down slightly to face Kiaan at eye level. He didn't speak for a second. The silence dragged—thick and unblinking.
Killer: "You're not military… not officially. But you walked in like you belonged. Acted like one of them. It confused me for a moment."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out something small—Kiaan's seminar ID pass. Tossed it on the floor in front of him.
Killer: "So I followed you. Watched. You're not like the others… But you still fit."
Kiaan's mind raced. The killer had selected his victims carefully. Young. Military-trained. Boys who could be lured. Controlled. Broken.
Kiaan (lowly, testing him): "So this is your little revenge tour? You hunt soldiers who could've been you? Or is this some pathetic fantasy of power?"
For a brief second, the killer's mask turned still. No reaction. But then he stood up.
Killer (quietly): "You talk like an agent. But you look like a recruit. And now… you'll end like one."
He turned and walked toward a metal table against the wall—lined with tools. Silent. Mechanical. Precise.
Kiaan's pulse quickened.
Kiaan (shouting): "You think this ends with me? My team will find you. You should've killed me while you had the chance."
The killer turned, holding a silver scalpel in one hand, almost admiring it under the flickering bulb.
Killer: "Oh no, agent. I don't want you dead… yet. I want to see what happens when the spider thinks it's still in control—when it's really in the web."
He stepped forward—
But in that moment, Kiaan's fingers twisted behind his back, rubbing against the jagged edge of a metal bracket he'd already spotted fixed into the floor while distracting the killer with his words.
Stall longer, he told himself.
He wasn't broken.
Not yet.