Phil

Blood spread across the concrete in dark puddles, reflecting the dim light of a truck passing outside. In the center of the abandoned workshop, Phill stood, breathing heavily. His axe, dripping scarlet, hung lifelessly from his hand. The bodies of those who dared to sell poison in his name lay around him.

Two men in black suits stood frozen next to the boss. One of them, Henk, held a photograph in his hand.

"Boss, he's nowhere to be found. That bastard's secretary seems to have escaped," he reported, showing the photo.

You froze around the corner, in a narrow passageway between the walls, pressed against the cold concrete. Your heart was pounding so loudly it seemed it could be heard throughout the entire workshop. It was you in the photograph.

You took a careless step, and a shard of glass crunched under your foot. The sound was tiny, but in the deathly silence it resounded like a gunshot. Phil headed toward the sound. His heavy footsteps, splashing through puddles of blood, echoed toward you. You desperately jerked away, but a loop of rebar caught your sleeve.

A strong hand grabbed you roughly by the collar and lifted you off the ground. You hung in midair, meeting the icy gaze of the mafioso. He looked at you with intense curiosity, all covered in dust and fear.

"Don't worry, I won't kill you, you're too cute. You'll just work for me."