The dimly lit room smelled of old wood and mildew. A single, swaying bulb cast flickering shadows on the cracked walls, adding to the oppressive atmosphere. A towering figure stood at attention, his muscular arms folded across his broad chest, casting a hulking silhouette. Across from him, a man sat behind a shabby desk, his lean form exuding an unnatural stillness, as though he were waiting for something… or someone.
The door creaked open, and a nervous, disheveled man was pushed inside. His eyes darted around the room in terror. This was the doorman—a low-level thug in the syndicate. He had been dragged from his bed without explanation, half-asleep when they forced him into the cold air of the night and now into the presence of the man behind the desk.
The towering man gave a single nod. "This is him."
The doorman's knees buckled slightly, his face pale with fear as he realized where he was and who he was facing. The frail-looking man behind the desk rose slowly, circling the quivering doorman like a predator sizing up its prey.
"You… were working the door the night someone pulled that camera footage?" The question was asked softly, almost a whisper, but it sent chills down the doorman's spine.
The doorman swallowed hard. "Yes, but… but it wasn't my fault. I swear! The guy looked normal. Hat pulled low, nothing suspicious. I—I was tired. Didn't check him too close. Just wanted to get back to my magazine, and—"
His voice trailed off as he felt the cold eyes of the man behind the desk boring into him.
"You let a stranger in. Someone walked into the room and took what was not theirs." The man's tone remained unnervingly calm, but there was a growing tension in the air, an unspoken threat beneath his words. "A mistake," he added softly. "But mistakes have consequences."
Without warning, the man behind the desk raised his arm, his fingers curling into a fist, and with inhuman speed, he struck. His hand sliced through the air, sharper than any blade, and with a sickening crunch, it severed the doorman's arm from his body. Blood sprayed across the floor as the man screamed in agony, collapsing to the ground.
The towering figure didn't flinch. He had seen this before. He knew what came next.
The frail man crouched down, his movements disturbingly fluid. He picked up the severed arm with a twisted calmness, his hand squeezing the limb as though appraising its weight. Then, with a grotesque contortion, he shoved the arm into his mouth, bending and snapping the bones to make it fit. His jaw stretched unnaturally, skin rippling as he devoured the limb whole.
The doorman's screams echoed off the walls, but they were cut short as the towering man stepped forward, silencing him with a swift blow to the head. He fell unconscious, his body twitching in shock and pain.
The devourer rose slowly, wiping the blood from his mouth, his eyes flickering with cold satisfaction. He turned to the towering figure, now addressing him for the first time since the doorman was brought in.
"Take care of this quickly," he said, his voice a dark whisper. "And bring him to me… alive."
The towering man nodded in silent acknowledgment, but before he could leave, the devourer's voice halted him.
"Brutus," the man said, his tone taking on a more commanding edge. "Don't fail me like this again, please."
Brutus bowed his head, fear and respect intertwined in his gaze. "Yes, Henry."
As Brutus turned to leave, Henry Mire smiled—a cold, hollow smile that never reached his eyes.