Kneeling on the marble floor of Don Guido's villa, Desmond Benjamin pleaded with his hands together. Sweat slipped down his forehead, spatters of blood from an earlier encounter staining his cheek; his breath was hazardous, his voice trembling.

  "Please, Don Guido—please! I can still be useful!" His head fell low in respect.

  Across from him on a grand leather chair sat Don Giorgio Guido. The shadows of the dim light slunk across the opulent room.

  Guido let out a soft breath, standing from his chair with a whisper of a sigh. He adjusted the cuffs of his immaculate white suit, his sharp, calculating eyes looking at the prostrate man before him.

  "You disappoint me, Desmond," spoke Guido, calm and terse with an undercurrent of menace. "First, you lose the Mercenary Championship. Then, a surprise attack on Kai Ciphera; not only did you fail... you fail twice."

  Desmond flinched at the words, fists clenching from rage, nails biting into the flesh of his palms.

  Guido simply shook his head. "Tell me, Desmond... if you can't win, if you can't even kill one man with the element of surprise—what use are you to me?"

  Desmond's eyes widened in terror. He threw himself forward, grabbing onto Guido's pristine shoes as his voice cracked from panic.

  "No! Please! Don't kill me—I can do better! I swear on my life!"

  A long silence passed.

  Then Guido smiled. "Stand up."

  Desmond blinked, stunned. After a moment of hesitation, he scrambled to his feet, hope flickering in his chest.

  "I'm not going to kill you," said Guido smoothly, hand placed on Desmond's shoulder.

  Desmond laughed with relief, almost too exhausted to remain standing. "Thank you! Thank you, Don Guido! I swear, I won't disappoint you again!"

  Guido chuckled. "You've been under too much stress lately. You need a vacation. How about this? Let me take you to a fine restaurant. My treat."

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  Desmond grinned and relaxed. "Really? Thank you, sir!"

  Guido waved his hand dismissively. "Go on, freshen up. My men will take you there."

  Desmond bowed low once again before leaving the room. The moment the door clicked shut, Guido's warm smile disappeared. All signs of warmth vanished as he sank back into his chair.

  "It's time I make a move on you... Kai Ciphera," Guido said to himself.

  Moments later, Desmond slid into the backseat of a slick black car waiting just outside the villa. The leather upholstery felt slick and cold against his sweaty skin.

  He expelled his breath and allowed himself to relax.

  "Man... I really thought I was dead," he murmured, nervously laughing.

  The driver did not respond. Neither did the three other men who sat in their seats in the car.

  Desmond cast a slight frown. It felt... off.

  Before he could say anything, a sharp, searing pain exploded in his throat. His eyes widened in horror as he felt a gleaming knife sunk deeply into his neck, the blade tearing through muscles and arteries.

  Blood gushed out in torrents, splattering the backseat while his mouth opened in a silent scream.

  Another man clamped a handkerchief over his mouth, muffling his gurgling cries as his body convulsed violently. Fingers crackled with electricity as Desmond tried to summon his power—but before he could unleash it, two more blades plunged into his chest, twisting torturously. With utterly unbearable pain, his body shuddered, and his vision swirled. He kicked and thrashed, but the men held him down, his knives stabbing again and again—his ribs, his stomach, his lungs—until his strength and breath began to fade. Blood poured across the seats, pooling beneath him in a growing puddle of crimson death.

  His heart pounded painfully, working as hard as it could to keep him alive.

  His sight blurred.

  His body felt cold.

  His last thoughts were about betrayal. Not revenge, nor the Mercenary Championship he had lost, and definitely not about Kai Ciphera.

  As his body grew limp, the men wrapped the corpse in a thick sack and bound it shut with some cord.

  One of them lit a cigarette, inhaling lazily and exhaling slowly. "He put up more of a fight than I expected."

  The driver scoffed. "Didn't matter. He was already a dead man the moment he walked into that car."

  And with that, they drove toward the docks, where Desmond's last place of rest awaited—a cold, dark abyss at the bottom of the ocean.