Luna's wrists were raw from the zip ties, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the crushing realization of her situation. The warehouse smelled of rust and motor oil, and the single bulb hanging overhead cast harsh shadows across concrete walls.
She'd been here for hours, tied to a metal chair in what looked like an abandoned mechanic's shop. Her captors had been surprisingly professional—no unnecessary violence, just efficient restraint and silence. But something about their behavior suggested they were waiting for someone.
The sound of footsteps echoed through the warehouse, and Luna's blood turned to ice. She knew that walk—the slightly uneven gait from an old football injury, the way the left foot dragged just slightly.
"Well, well. Look what we have here."
Damien stepped
