In Mick's dream, he found himself confined within the walls of a dreary cell, its walls coated with layers of grime. The air was filled with a musty scent, a mixture of dampness and decay that seemed to cling to everything it touched.

Mick sat huddled in one corner, his knees drawn up to his chest as he glanced around at his surroundings. The cell was barren, devoid of any comforts or decorations. There was a cot in one corner, its thin mattress stained and tattered from years of use. A small, barred window high above let in a faint sliver of moonlight that did little to alleviate the darkness.

Beside Mick, a young boy with blonde hair and bright green eyes sat hunched over, his expression one of resignation. His clothes were dirty and torn.

"How long has it been already?" the boy asked.

Mick glanced over to a section of the cell where he had meticulously marked each passing day with tally marks on the wall. "Four months, Paul," he replied softly.

Paul's frustration boiled over as he slammed his fist against the cold stone wall. "We are never leaving this place! We are gonna die in here," he declared angrily.

Mick refused to give in to despair. "Paul, don't say that," he insisted, his voice filled with determination. "Someone will come for us, eventually. We just have to hold on a little longer."

But Paul scoffed bitterly. "Yeah, right," he retorted. "Who's gonna come for a couple of orphans like us? We're on our own, Mick. Nobody even knows we are here."

"We'll find a way out, Paul," Mick declared. "We just have to keep believing."

Mick insisted. "We'll find a way out, Paul. We just have to keep believing."

Their conversation was interrupted as Liam sauntered into the cell, his usual grin plastered across his face. Mick's blood ran cold at the sight of him.

"Looks like we have two lost boys all alone in the world," Liam remarked with false cheerfulness. "But you two look so adorable, so I am going to cheer your spirits."

Mick and Paul exchanged glances at each other. Nothing good could come from Liam’s presence.

Liam clapped his hands excitedly. "I know. How about we play a game?" he suggested, his tone playful.

Out of fear, Paul pleaded, "Liam, please, we don't want to play your games."

However, Liam simply laughed. "Oh, but you will, Paul," he replied. "Or I'll just kill both of you instead."

Mick knew that Liam wasn't bluffing. How many others had he killed in here already? Mick clenched his fists. He was angry and scared at the same time.

Paul muttered under his breath. "You bastard…"

Liam's grin widened as he outlined the rules of his twisted game. "You see, the rules are simple. You two will fight each other to the death. Whoever wins gets to live. The loser... well, let's just say they won't be needing to worry about anything ever again."

Paul's stomach churned with disgust as he listened to Liam's cruel words, "You can’t be serious," he choked out.

But Liam's grin only widened. "Oh, I am deadly serious," he taunted. "So, shall we begin?"

"No," Mick declared, his voice trembling with defiance. "I won't fight him. I won't let you turn us against each other."

Liam shrugged indifferently. "You have just five minutes," he announced before dropping a knife on the floor and leaving the cell.

Paul stared at the knife lying on the ground, his eyes wide with horror. Mick's heart raced as he watched his friend's trembling hands reach for the weapon.

"Paul, we don't have to do this," Mick pleaded.

"I'm sorry, Mick," he whispered, tears in his eyes. "But I don't want to die."

With a pained cry, Paul lunged at Mick, aiming for his throat. Mick's instincts kicked in, and he pushed Paul away, his heart breaking at the sight of his friend's desperation.

"I’m not going to fight you, Paul. I know you don’t want to do this,” Mick declared.

"You're right, I don’t want to do it," Paul whispered, his voice choked by the sound of his own sobs. "In fact, I can’t do it. You... you have a better soul than me."

With a broken sob, he turned the knife on himself, his eyes filled with remorse as he whispered, "This is the best solution, isn’t it?"

Mick's heart shattered into a million pieces as he watched his friend take his own life before his eyes. Tears streamed down Mick’s cheeks as Paul crumpled to the ground.

Liam soon reentered the cell with a sickening smile on his face. "Well, looks like we have a survivor," he remarked casually.

But Mick's grief gave way to a burning fury as he spat, "You sick bastard."

Liam simply chuckled. "Oh, come on, you have to admit that was funny," he remarked casually. "But don’t worry, our little game is far from over. After all, there are more children in here. Not just you and Peter, or whatever the hell his name was."

And with that chilling promise, Liam turned and left the cell. Mick then turned back to stare at his friend’s lifeless body. The cell felt colder and darker than ever before.

Mick's eyelids fluttered open, his body drenched in sweat from the clarity of his dreams. He sat up in bed, his chest rising and falling with each labored breath. With trembling hands, he wiped away the tears that still clung to his cheeks. Despite his efforts to calm himself, his heart still hammered in his chest.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

Taking a deep breath, Mick swung his legs over the side of the king-sized bed, his feet meeting the cool marble floor. His eyes scanned the room, searching for any sign of Jett, but the space beside him was empty, save for the neatly folded clothes laid out on the bed. The clothes looked comfortable, a soft cotton shirt paired with well-worn jeans.

With a shaky breath, Mick reached for the clothes and made his way to the adjoining bathroom. As he stripped off his old clothes and stepped into the soothing spray of the shower, he felt better. The water provided small comfort, but at that moment, it was enough.

Emerging from the bathroom, Mick quickly dried himself off and slipped into the fresh clothes. They fit him perfectly.

As Mick made his way to the living room, he found Eric seated at the dining table, a steaming cup of black coffee in hand, while Jett leaned against the countertop, engaged in conversation.

"... It took you that long to master your ring?" Jett inquired.

Eric took a sip of his coffee before replying, "Three years isn't really a long time. Also, I haven’t really mastered it yet."

Jett's gaze fell to the ring on his finger. "So it's going to take a while before I master my ring, huh?" he mused aloud.

Eric nodded. "Maybe not. After all, you have a potent bloodline."

Jett pressed for more information. "I've been meaning to ask. What do you mean by having a potent bloodline?"

Eric's response was frustratingly vague. "That your bloodline is potent," he stated dismissively.

Jett was clearly annoyed as he narrowed his gaze. "Please, elaborate," he retorted.

Eric merely shrugged. "That's all I know. Like I said before, I don't know much about the rings."

Jett redirected his question. "Well, do you know anybody who does?"

But Eric seemed to ignore Jett's question as he turned his attention to Mick, who had just joined them in the living room. "Did you enjoy your sleep?" he asked.

Surprised, Jett turned around to see Mick approaching. "Oh, you're awake?" he exclaimed with a smile.

Mick returned Jett's smile with a small one of his own, as he took a seat beside Jett.

Charlotte soon joined them at the table. Eric glanced at Charlotte with an unreadable expression.

"Glad you’re awake," Eric said in a neutral tone.

Charlotte managed a small smile in response.

***

Inside of the motel, the room was sparsely furnished, with a worn-out sofa against one wall and a threadbare carpet covering the floor.

Ezekiel sat at a rickety table. In his hand, he held a glass filled with amber liquid; the contents sloshing gently with each movement. Liam sat opposite him, his own glass cup in hand, as they conversed.

"...where the hell did you say this joint is?" Ezekiel inquired,

Liam took a sip from his glass before responding, "123, Luxury Estate."

"You knew where it was. Why the hell you ain't just run up in there and snatch Jett?" Ezekiel asked.

Liam leaned back in his chair with a smirk. "Well, I would have done that, but there were tons of security measures in place. Kinda like Fort Knox."

Ezekiel grunted, taking a sip of his drink. "So, you got a plan to slide past all them security measures?"

Liam's smirk widened into a grin. "Of course. I had all night to think about it. Thank God it's a Saturday, so we have all the time we need to get to work."

Ezekiel corrected him, "It's a damn Tuesday."

Liam waved off the correction with a shrug. "We still have enough time to get to work," he insisted. "All we need are men and guns. Lots of guns."

Ezekiel nodded in agreement. "That ain't gonna be no issue," he assured. "But what makes you so damn sure Jett's holed up in there?"

Liam's grin widened. "Instinct," he replied cheekily.

Ezekiel scoffed. "You ain't really thinkin' I'mma waste my guns and my boys on just some gut feeling," he retorted.

Liam's grin remained firmly in place. "Well, my instincts have never been wrong before," he retorted. "Besides, even if we don't get Jett, we'll still get our reward by capturing Whimsy."

Ezekiel took another sip from his glass. "Who the hell is Whimsy?" he asked.

Liam let out an exasperated sigh. "And I thought I was bad at remembering people's names..." he muttered under his breath.

Ezekiel's patience was wearing thin. "Man, quit playin'. Answer the damn question already," he demanded.

Liam explained. "Whimsy was the one who stole that ring we got from that whole shitshow in Abu Dhabi."

"That sneaky bitch," Ezekiel growled. "So, Whimsy’s posted up in that crib too?"

Liam nodded firmly.

"Perfect," Ezekiel declared. "We slide past them security measures, roll in guns blazin', snatch them rings, and leave a trail of bodies if we gotta."

"That's the spirit," Liam applauded. "So, when are we going?"

Ezekiel slammed his glass down on the table. "We movin' right now," he declared. "Ain't no time to waste."

***

Back at Eric’s apartment, Whimsy stumbled into the living room, their movements sluggish and accompanied by groans on pain.

Whimsy then remarked, "God, I hate hangovers."

"What time did you come back?" Jett inquired.

Whimsy rubbed their temples, wincing at the brightness of the room. "I don't know. I was too busy getting drunk to actually check the time," they replied with a weak grin.

Eric raised an eyebrow at Whimsy's response. "You went out? To where?" he inquired.

With a wry grin, Whimsy turned to face Eric. "To get a drink, of course," they quipped. "This place was starting to feel a bit too gloomy for my taste."

"Did you happen to meet anybody?" he probed, his tone serious.

Whimsy paused as they recalled the events of the previous night. "Yeah, I met my old associate. This guy is named Liam. Really nice guy, by the way. He once bought me this nice-looking flower…" Whimsy trailed off as Eric interrupted them.

"Liam? As in, the Liam that works for Ezekiel?"

Whimsy nodded, oblivious to Eric’s seriousness. "Yup, that's the one. He's grown his hair a bit, too," they remarked casually.

Mick trembled in fear. "N—No, not Liam," he stuttered, drawing Jett’s attention.

‘So Mick does know Liam,’ Jett reasoned. "It might have to do with why Ezekiel is after him."

Eric's focus remained fixed on Whimsy as he pressed on. "Did Liam touch you?"

Whimsy responded with a nonchalant shrug. "I think he grabbed me by the neck. However, my memory is a bit blurry. After all, let's just say Liam's hands weren't the only things getting a grip on me last night," they replied with a smirk.

"Why are you asking all these questions?" Jett questioned, as he turned to look at Eric.

Suddenly, Eric's ring glowed with a faint grey light, and the tracking device implanted near Whimsy’s neck short-circuited. Whimsy winced in pain.

"Ouch, that hurts," Whimsy exclaimed, their hand instinctively reaching for their neck.

Eric began connecting the dots. "Liam must’ve tapped you. And you must have led him right to this apartment," he concluded grimly.

Charlotte's hands trembled uncontrollably when she heard Eric. Jett easily noticed it. "Is Liam also connected to her somehow?" Jett wondered silently.

Mick spoke up once more, trembling with fear. "We have to leave. If Liam is coming here, then we have to leave… we…" he trailed off, his breaths coming in short gasps.

"Calm down. I have security measures in place that will warn me of any trespassers," Eric reassured.

"What if Liam finds a way to get past them?" Mick questioned, still trembling.

"Then…" Eric began, but his voice suddenly trailed off as his face darkened.

Jett’s heart pounded in his chest as he noticed Eric’s expression. "What's wrong, Eric?" he demanded, his own fear rising.

Eric's voice was barely a whisper. "Someone just disabled my security systems…"

Before Eric could continue, the shrill sound of the doorbell interrupted him. Suddenly, Jett felt something claw his neck and invisible fingers creep up his spine. That wasn’t a good feeling. "Morris, don’t open the door…" Jett shouted, with as much strength as he could muster.

But it was too late. The door swung open, and several armed men stormed into the apartment, their guns blazing. In that moment, Jett uttered the only word that he could. "Shit."