Love Me Or Leave Me

Lost and Found

The first thing Adrian noticed is the weight of the air—thick, damp, and suffocating, pressing down on him with an unseen force that coiled around his lungs like a vice. It isn’t just the humidity; it is the stale, stagnant heaviness of a room that has been left to decay, the kind of place where time moves sluggishly, where the walls absorb secrets and never give them back. His throat burned with the remnants of something acrid—cigarette smoke, cheap whiskey, sweat that had seeped into the concrete over the years, staining the air with a sickly familiarity. His fingers twitch against the floor, brushing against the cold, rough texture of unpolished cement, each grain of dust clinging to his skin like an unwanted memory. The pain came next—sharp, unrelenting, drilling into the base of his skull like a relentless hammer, sending waves of nausea rolling through his stomach. His limbs are stiff, his muscles lock with discomfort from the unnatural position he had been left in for who knew how long.

Where the hell am I?

The thought surfaced sluggishly, sluggish like his body, like his mind, still wrapped in the residual fog of unconsciousness. His eyelids feel leaden as he forces them open, the dim, flickering glow of a single overhead light stabbing into his vision. The bulb swayed slightly, a slow, hypnotic rhythm, casting elongated shadows that stretch and twist across the ceiling—a ceiling cracked with age, water stains spreading like ink blots in an unfinished painting. The walls around him were bare, windowless, their dull, lifeless surface marred by peeling paint and patches of grime. No cameras. No guards. No restraints.

They had let him go or they had placed him here.

The distinction sent an uneasy ripple down his spine. This isn’t an escape. It is a message. A calculated move in a game he has not fully seen the board for yet.

Exhaling sharply, Adrian pressed his palms flat against the ground, his fingers curling slightly against the grit of the floor before he pushed himself upright. His body protested immediately, a slow, burning ache spreading through his shoulders and down his spine, but he ignored it. Weakness isn't an option. Not here. Not now. He flexed his fingers, rolling his wrists instinctively—but there are no bruises, no rope burns, nothing to suggest he had been bound. Another question hanging in the air.

His suit jacket is missing, leaving him in a wrinkled dress shirt, the fabric streaked with dirt, the top button ripped open. He ran a hand down his chest, searching. Pockets—empty. No wallet, no keys, no phone. His pulse ticked up slightly, though his expression remained unreadable.

A slow breath in control and focus. His mind is clearing now, the sluggish fog beginning to lift, leaving only the cold clarity of logic in its place. He remembered the interrogation, the questions that had been asked not to seek answers but to confirm what they already knew. He remembered the way that bastard had spoken, the way his voice had curled around Elena’s name like a predator testing the weight of its prey.

Elena.

Adrian’s jaw tightened, his teeth clenching so hard his muscles ached.

He knew better than to believe in coincidences.

This was calculated. Orchestrated.

Elena’s past and his own—they were entangled in ways he still didn’t fully understand, in ways that had been set in motion long before either of them had ever met.

And now, someone was making sure they both knew it.

Adrian exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable, his mind already moving ten steps ahead. He didn’t know the reason behind this latest move, not yet.

But he damn well wasn’t going to wait around to find out.

Gritting his teeth, he braced one hand against the rough, unforgiving wall, using it as leverage as he pushed himself to his feet. The room tilted for a brief second, the aftereffects of whatever the hell they had done to him still lingering in his system. His body screamed at him to stop, to sit, to recover.

But recovery would have to wait.

Because there were bigger things at play here.

And Adrian Blackwood wasn’t going to be anyone’s pawn.

The door hadn’t been locked.

That fact alone sent a slow, simmering wave of unease curling through Adrian’s chest, settling deep in his bones like a warning he couldn’t ignore. They hadn’t tried to keep him restrained, hadn’t surrounded him with armed guards or cold steel bars. No, they had simply let him go. Not an escape—a release. A deliberate move in whatever twisted game they were playing.

Adrian stepped out of the building, the cold night air slamming into him like a wall, sharp and biting against his skin. His body tensed instinctively, muscles stiff and aching, but he barely acknowledged the discomfort. Instead, he focused on his surroundings, inhaling deeply despite the dull throb in his ribs. The city’s scent was thick, layered with the greasy tang of fried food from a distant street vendor, the metallic bite of gasoline, and the lingering staleness of damp asphalt that had absorbed the night’s rain. It was the kind of air that felt lived-in, heavy with stories no one dared to tell.

The street stretched before him—narrow, forgotten, left to decay in the city’s shadows. The buildings on either side loomed close, their walls covered in peeling paint and faded graffiti, remnants of old gang tags long abandoned. Flickering streetlamps bathed the pavement in an eerie, uneven glow, their dim yellow light casting jagged shadows that stretched unnaturally across the cracked concrete. A few cars were parked haphazardly along the curb, some with shattered windows, others covered in layers of dust, as if they had been sitting there for months—unclaimed, unwanted.

He didn’t recognize the place. Not entirely.

But he knew enough to understand what kind of neighborhood he had been dumped into.

One of the city’s forgotten corners.

The kind of place where men disappeared without a trace, where whispers carried more weight than laws, where survival wasn’t about strength but about knowing whose hands to shake and whose to cut off. Deals were made here, not in boardrooms but in dimly lit alleyways, under the hum of flickering neon signs. Favors came at a cost, and silence was more valuable than loyalty.

They had put him here deliberately.

Not in some isolated warehouse on the outskirts of the city. Not in a locked cell beneath the foundations of an enemy’s stronghold.

They had left him somewhere he could find his own way out.

Another test.

Another reminder that he wasn’t free. That even now, they were still watching.

Adrian exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders, forcing his body into motion despite the lingering stiffness in his limbs. He needed to move. Standing still meant thinking too much, and thinking too much meant giving in to the slow, creeping anger unfurling inside of him.

He needed a phone.

A way to contact someone.

A way back into control.

His gaze swept the street, calculating, measuring. Then, in the distance, he spotted it—a neon sign flickering erratically against the darkness.

24-hour Call Center.

Perfect.

Adrian crossed the street with measured strides, forcing himself to move like a man who belonged here, like a man who wasn’t covered in dirt and dried sweat, who hadn’t just woken up in a concrete tomb. The door creaked as he stepped inside, the shift in air thick with the scent of burnt coffee, old cigarettes, and something faintly medicinal, like cheap disinfectant.

A man sat behind the counter, hunched over a crumpled newspaper, the blue glow of a tiny television screen flickering from behind him. He barely glanced up as Adrian entered, his attention fixed on whatever low-budget crime drama was playing.

Good.

Adrian walked past without a word, slipping into one of the call booths near the back. The seat was cracked, the plastic warped from years of neglect, but he ignored it as he picked up the receiver, his fingers hovering over the keypad.

Who do I call?

Damian was the easiest choice.

He always had connections in places like this. Always knew someone who owed him a favor, always had a way of making problems disappear.

Adrian punched in the number, pressing the phone to his ear.

The line rang. Once. Twice.

Then—voicemail.

Adrian closed his eyes for a brief second, inhaling slowly through his nose as frustration curled through his chest.

Son of a b***h.

Of course Damian wasn’t answering. The bastard was probably wrapped in silk sheets, tangled up in some barely-legal redhead, whiskey on his breath, his phone buried somewhere beneath the wreckage of another meaningless night.

Adrian exhaled sharply, forcing down the irritation.

Fine.

That left one other option.

His fingers moved swiftly, dialing again.

This time, the phone barely rang twice before a voice answered, sharp and urgent “Where the hell are you?”

Adrian leaned back against the booth, closing his eyes briefly before exhaling “Wish I knew.”

Lucas cursed under his breath, the sound static through the receiver, "Tell me what you see."

Adrian let his gaze flicker across the street, taking in every detail—the rundown liquor store with its rusting security gate, the crooked fire escape attached to a decaying apartment building, the faint, distant glow of the river reflecting against the city skyline.

He described them all, his voice even, controlled, despite the dull pulse of exhaustion dragging at the edges of his mind.

Silence stretched on the other end of the line.

Then—Lucas exhaled “Got it. I know where you are. Stay there.”

Adrian arched a brow “That was fast.”

Another pause.

Then, Lucas’ voice dropped lower, quieter.

“You’re not the only one they’ve been watching.”

A slow, cold realization settled deep in Adrian’s chest.

This wasn’t just about him.

His fingers tightened around the receiver.

Lucas’ voice sharpened "You okay?"

Adrian let out a low, humorless chuckle, running a hand through his hair as he leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "Never better."

He heard an engine rev on the other end of the line, the subtle shift of movement as Lucas started driving.

"Sit tight," Lucas said. "I’ll be there in ten."

The line went dead.

Adrian set the phone down, his fingers lingering over the receiver for a moment before he finally let go. His shoulders remained tense, his mind already calculating, already piecing together the next steps.

They had let him go for a reason.

And whatever that reason was—

He wasn’t going to wait for them to make the next move.

He would find them first.

And he would make them regret ever thinking they could control him.