09

9

The dim warehouse echoed with muffled cries and the occasional clang of metal as Lu Yang’s men finished their work. The attackers, bound and bloodied, knelt on the cold concrete floor. Each one was stripped of his bravado, reduced to raw fear and desperation as Zhan stepped forward. His presence was a storm—a fury so cold and focused that even the air felt suffocating. 

“Talk,” Zhan commanded, his voice low but sharp, a blade slicing through the silence. 

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