The night fell heavy over P City, swallowing the skyline in fog and shadow.A storm was building again—low thunder rumbling like a warning from the heavens, as if even nature sensed what was about to unfold.
Damian's men moved like shadows.
One by one, the people who had dared to humiliate Amara were plucked from their lives. Leila, still smug after the day's events, was dragged into a van near her apartment. Jonah, drunk from after-work drinks, never reached his home. Mika, waiting at a bus stop, was whisked away before she even realized the danger.
By the time midnight struck, seven people sat trembling on cold metal chairs. Their faces were pale, streaked with tears and sweat, their wrists raw from struggling against the coarse ropes inside a cavernous, abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city. The place had once been a factory owned by Sinclair Enterprises, but now it served as one of the Sinclair family's private strongholds—unknown to most, feared by those who did.
The fear had settled into the air now, thick and sour.
Leila, the loudest of the group—the one who had mocked Amara most viciously—sat in the middle, her breaths sharp and uneven. She had already humiliated herself by wetting her skirt in terror when the footsteps of their captors first approached.
They didn't know where they were. They didn't know who had taken them. All they knew was that their situation was far beyond what their simple office gossip had ever prepared them for.
And then they heard it.
Footsteps. Slow, deliberate, echoing against the concrete floor.
Their bodies stiffened, and terror rippled through them as one of the men muttered,
"Young Master, they're ready."
Young Master.
The title made their hearts drop into their stomachs.
The sound of those words, so full of deference and authority, was enough to make Jonah's hands tremble violently against the ropes. Mika bit down on her lip until it bled. Leila humiliated herself more when one of Damian's men noticed her wet skirt.
"Pathetic," he sneered.
Then the footsteps drew closer.
Leila couldn't take it anymore. The fear, the waiting, the unknown—it snapped something inside her.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" she screamed, her voice high-pitched and panicked. "Why are we here?! Who the hell do you think you are?!"
No answer came.
Blindfolded, she could only hear the slow approach of polished shoes against the floor.
Her fear turned into anger, a desperate attempt to regain control. "You think this will scare us? Hah! Whoever you are, you'll regret this! Do you know who my father is?!"
Her words emboldened the others.
"Yeah!" another spat. "You can't just do this to us!"
"We didn't even do anything wrong!"
"This is illegal—you'll pay for this—"
Their voices were silenced in an instant when Damian's men grabbed their hair roughly, forcing their heads down. Whimpers replaced their bravado. The sound of muffled sobs filled the warehouse.
And then… silence.
The footsteps finally stopped.
"Remove the blindfolds," Damian ordered, his voice smooth but laced with steel.
The captives flinched at the sound. One by one, their blindfolds were ripped away. Their eyes adjusted to the dim light, and when they finally saw who stood before them, their blood ran cold.
Damian Sinclair.
Perfectly composed in a black suit, his expression unreadable, and his eyes sharp and merciless. He exuded power, authority, and a suffocating aura that pressed against their very souls.
For a moment, none of them could speak.
And then Leila, still trembling but too foolish to stay silent, shrieked.
"YOU! Damian Sinclair?! What is the meaning of this?! Y-you're just… just an ordinary employee! You think you can—""
Her voice cracked, but she forced her glare at him anyway. "We'll sue you for this! We'll ruin you! You—"
"Silence."
The single word was quiet, but it froze her instantly.
Damian's men shoved her back down into the chair when she tried to rise.
Damian's gaze swept across the group. Cold. Sharp. Deadly.
"You don't understand," he said finally, his voice even, almost calm. "If I wanted to ruin you, I wouldn't need to bring you here. It would take a single phone call."
His words sliced through the silence like a blade.
The group trembled. One girl whimpered openly, tears spilling down her cheeks.
Damian continued, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "You think you can mock her—insult her—without consequence? That no one will protect her? That no one will notice?" he asked softly, his calm tone somehow more terrifying than if he had shouted.
No one dared to answer.
Damian leaned in, his shadow falling over Leila. "Listen carefully. If you ever dare to lay a finger on Amara Castellanos again—if you so much as whisper her name with disrespect—I will erase you. Quietly. Permanently. No one will find your body. No one will even remember you existed."
Leila's lips trembled, her earlier defiance gone.
Damian's gaze pierced them all. "Do not test me. My patience is thinner than you imagine. My power is greater than you can comprehend. And your lives mean nothing to me compared to her."
The words sank in, suffocating them in their terror.
Finally, Damian leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper.
"And if a single word of this reaches Amara… if she even suspects this meeting happened… that will be the last mistake you ever make."
The captives nodded frantically, tears streaming down their faces. Their earlier arrogance was gone—replaced by primal, bone-deep fear.
At last, Damian straightened, his face returning to its unreadable calm. "Good."
He turned to his men. "Inform their families they've been sent on a three-day business trip. They won't be coming home until then."
"Yes, Young Master."
Damian's gaze darkened further. "Starve them. Two days. Feed them before they return, just enough so their families won't question it. Make sure they remember this fear every time they open their mouths."
The employees gasped, their horror-stricken faces paling further.
Damian ignored them. He walked away, his polished shoes echoing against the concrete floor.
At the doorway, he paused, his profile bathed in the dim light.
"You thought I was just an ordinary employee in Navarro Corporation," he said quietly, though his voice carried with lethal sharpness. "But know this—your entire lives, your families, your futures… they are all nothing compared to her."
Then he left.
The warehouse doors closed with a final echo, leaving the captives in darkness, their bodies shaking.
His men remained silent, watching the trembling group with predator's eyes.
Only then did they realize the truth.
Damian Sinclair wasn't just an ordinary employee of Kael.
He was far, far above him.
The heir of the Sinclair family. One of the wealthiest, most powerful families in the country. A man whose status rivalled kings.
And most terrifying of all—
He was the monster who would burn the world to ashes to protect the woman they had mocked.
Outside, Damian stopped under the rain that had begun to fall again, thin streams running down his face like ghosts of tears he refused to shed.
His driver approached cautiously. "It's done, Young Master."
Damian didn't respond immediately. He looked up at the storm-heavy sky, his jaw tight.In his mind, he could still see her—Amara, standing near the lamppost, clutching herself like the world had broken her in half.
He exhaled slowly. "No one must know," he murmured. "Not her. Especially not her."
"Yes, sir."
He got into the car, the leather seat groaning softly beneath his weight. As the vehicle pulled away, the warehouse disappeared behind him, swallowed by the rain and fog.
In the distance, lightning split the sky—briefly illuminating the city where Amara slept, unaware of the monster who had just avenged her.
That night, the rumours at Navarro Corporation died as suddenly as they had started.The laughter stopped. The gossip faded.And in the silence that followed, the name Amara Castellanos was no longer spoken in ridicule—only in fear and reverence.
None of the seven ever mentioned the warehouse again.They didn't have to.The terror in their eyes spoke for them.
They knew now—Damian Sinclair wasn't Kael's subordinate.He was something far greater.And far, far more dangerous.