Captured by: Love Or Hatred?

Inner Demon

Chapter 3: Inner Demon

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Ryan Collins’ POV

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The screen in front of me glows with numbers, locations, and names—rows of data arranged with calculated precision, each detail meant to align perfectly, to make sense, to obey the structure I have built; and yet, even from a distance, I can see what is missing, what doesn’t fit, what refuses to fall into place.

Incomplete information irritates me far more than incompetence ever could, because incompetence can be corrected, trained, replaced— but missing pieces, overlooked details, unanswered gaps… those are variables, and variables have a way of turning into problems.

The pen in my hand slows, then comes to a halt mid-signature, the ink barely finishing the stroke of my name.

Not because I’m thinking.

But because someone, standing across from me, is.

Hesitating.

The kind of hesitation that stretches just a second too long, that lingers in the air like something unspoken, something unwelcome.

" Say it, " I say, my voice even, controlled, without lifting my gaze from the document in front of me.

The silence across the desk thickens, feels heavy. Still, I continue signing—contracts, agreements that shift markets, that build empires and dismantle men without ever spilling a drop of visible blood.

Signatures that look harmless to those who don’t understand the weight they carry.

Bloodless on the surface.

" Sir, " Zack, my personal assistant, says from across the desk, a sleek tablet balanced in his hand, his posture straight, composed—too composed for someone standing in this room right now.

He’s always like that. Late twenties, maybe early thirties, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that never seems to crease, dark hair kept neat, sharp jawline, eyes alert behind thin-rimmed glasses—not out of necessity, but precision.

There’s a quiet intelligence in the way he carries himself, the kind that knows when to speak and, more importantly, when not to.

He didn’t survive this long by being careless.

" The shipment from Marseille cleared customs an hour ago. No flags. "

His voice is steady, professional, measured—every word placed carefully, as if even language here requires strategy.

I don’t look at him.

" And the leak? "

The question is simple.

The answer isn’t.

Zack hesitates.

Just for a fraction of a second—barely noticeable to anyone else.

But not to me.

That single pause tells me everything.

My fingers still over the paper beneath me, the pen hovering just above the signature line.

" I’m still waiting for an answer, Zack, " I say calmly, my voice even, almost indifferent, the kind of calm that doesn’t ask for urgency… but demands it.

Zack exhales slowly, careful not to make it obvious, his grip tightening ever so slightly around the tablet.

" The source went underground, " He replies, choosing each word with precision. " We’re tracing secondary contacts, but— "

I finally lift my eyes to him. And just like that, the room shifts.

His sentence dies before it can finish, caught somewhere between intention and consequence.

" But he slipped, " I say.

It isn’t a question.

It never was. It’s a statement. A fact.

A fact that is now costing me millions.

Zack holds my gaze for a second—just one— before nodding.

" Yes. "

No excuses. Good.

Excuses are useless.

I lean back in my chair, exhaling slowly, the leather creaking softly beneath my weight as the city stretches endlessly beyond the glass walls of my office— alive, moving, unaware that power isn’t built in noise, but in silence.

People think rage is loud. Explosive. Messy.

They imagine it in raised voices, shattered glass, reckless decisions.

They’re wrong.

Real rage is quiet. Calculated. Patient.

It sits beneath the surface, controlled, breathing slowly, waiting for the right moment to act— not to react.

A few days ago, I shot one of my investigators without giving him a chance to explain, not because I didn’t hear him, not because I didn’t understand what he was trying to say— but because explanations don’t change outcomes, and in my world, outcomes are the only things that matter.

The sound of the gunshot still lingers somewhere in memory— not loud, not dramatic, just… final.

Like closing a file.

Like erasing a mistake.

In my world, hesitation is a liability, a c***k in the structure, a weakness that doesn’t just threaten you—it exposes everyone tied to you. You don’t get time to weigh morality, to question right or wrong, when a single second, a single misstep, can turn you into a corpse before the thought even finishes forming.

Decisions are made instantly. Or they’re made for you.

Just like they were made for my father.

Assassinated.

Not in chaos. Not in war.

But in precision.

One bullet.

Many rivals.

One moment of weakness.

The city lights reflect faintly against the glass as my gaze drifts— not outward, but inward, toward something buried deeper than memory, something colder than grief.

My father understood power. He understood fear. He built an empire strong enough to command both.

But he underestimated betrayal.

And betrayal doesn’t announce itself.

It waits.

It watches.

It stands beside you, shakes your hand, earns your trust— and then pulls the trigger.

One friendship.

One betrayal.

One bullet.

And just like that, everything changes.

The empire he built didn’t fall.

It shifted.

Landed on shoulders that weren’t ready, on hands that hadn’t yet learned the weight of command, on a boy who understood loss before he understood what it meant to be human.

Grief wasn’t an option.

Survival was.

So I learned quickly. Faster than I should have.

How to make decisions without hesitation.

How to remove problems before they grew.

How to trust no one—not even those who stood closest.

Because in the end, it’s never the enemy that destroys you.

It’s the one you didn’t think would.

And I don’t make that mistake twice

My mother?

I don’t remember my mother. She died a few months after I was born—an absence so complete it never even felt like loss, because you can’t miss something you were never given the chance to know. There are no memories, no voice, no warmth attached to her name—just a fact, distant and hollow, like a file that exists but holds nothing inside.

And my father never bothered to fill that void.

He was too busy building an empire to notice the child standing in its shadow, too consumed with power, alliances, and enemies to realize that absence doesn’t disappear—it just hardens into something else.

Something quieter.

Something colder.

The office remains still around me, the low hum of the air conditioning the only constant, the city beyond the glass continuing its endless motion as if none of this— none of what shapes men like me— ever truly matters.

The pen in my hand pauses again, resting lightly against the paper, the ink waiting, just like everything else in this room.

For a decision.

For direction.

For consequence.

" Bring me everyone who worked that channel, " I say, my voice calm, measured, as though I’m discussing numbers instead of people.

" Sir— "

" I don’t care if they’re innocent. "

Zack stiffens across the desk, the reaction immediate, subtle—but there.

" If they touched it, " I continue evenly, not giving him space to finish, not giving him space to question, " they’re responsible. "

Because innocence is irrelevant.

Because proximity is enough.

Because mistakes don’t exist without someone allowing them to happen.

The silence that follows isn’t hesitation anymore— it’s acceptance.

Zack nods once, lowering his gaze briefly as he makes a note on his tablet, his movements precise, efficient, controlled.

Good.

He understands.

He always does. And that’s exactly why he’s still here.

Still breathing.

Because in my world, survival isn’t about loyalty— it’s about usefulness. About knowing when to speak, when to stay silent… and when not to hesitate.

" You may leave. "

My gaze lingers on Zack for a fraction longer before dropping back to the file in front of me, my fingers idly flipping the pen in a slow, controlled rhythm. A habit.

One I learned from my grandfather— back when loss had already taken everything else, and he was the only one who remained.

He taught one very crucial rule of mafia- never ever trust anyone. Not even your blood or loved ones.

He didn’t raise me with affection. He raised me with discipline. Taught me how men are forged— through pressure, not love. Through fear, not comfort. He didn’t raise a child— he forged a weapon.

And weapons don’t hesitate.

That’s how I survived.

That’s how I took over.

People often mistake my silence for mercy. It never is.

Silence, in my world, is calculation.

It’s the moment before a decision is made— not whether to act, but how.

I didn’t learn this cruelty overnight.

I learned it young.

Too young.

Maybe that’s why there was never a line between who I was and what I became— just a gradual erosion of everything unnecessary, until only function remained.

Something precise.

Something mechanical.

A man who understands only one thing— survival.

There was no one to teach me softness, no one to show me what it means to hesitate for someone else, to choose emotion over instinct, to exist without calculating the cost of every decision I make

Only survival.

It was never offered as a choice. It was carved into me, repeated until it became instinct, until it stopped feeling like something I was taught and started feeling like the only way to exist.

And somewhere along the way—somewhere between surviving and eliminating everything that threatened that survival, between hunting demons so they wouldn’t hunt me first— I became one.

Not all at once.

Not in a moment dramatic enough to remember.

But slowly, deliberately… until there was nothing left to resist it.

I know what I am.

There’s no confusion in that, no denial, no illusion of something better hiding underneath.

And I know what I enjoy.

The fear— the way it settles into people before they even understand why, the way their voices shift, their bodies betray them, their confidence dissolves into something far more honest.

The pleading— the desperation that follows when they realize they’ve lost control, when they understand that whatever power they thought they had… was never theirs to begin with.

And that moment— the exact moment when it finally reaches them, when the truth settles in and hope disappears— that mercy isn’t coming.

I don’t pretend otherwise.

I don’t justify it.

I don’t need to.

My men sometimes try to stop me when I lose control, stepping in carefully, cautiously, as if they believe there is still a part of me that will step back, that will reconsider, that will regret what comes after.

They’re wrong.

Regret is for men who still have something to lose.

I don’t.

That’s why my relatives keep their distance, speaking through intermediaries, hiding behind formalities and polite concerns instead of facing me directly.

That’s why relationships repel me—because I couldn’t protect the ones I was given naturally, and I refuse to create anything new knowing it could become a weakness.

And I don’t have weaknesses.

I don’t allow them.

I never will.

The same applies to women.

Temporary. Replaceable. Convenient.

Needs fulfilled without complication, without expectation, without consequence.

No attachments.

No vulnerability.

No weakness.

Just privilege.

I stare at my reflection in the glass, the city lights merging with the outline of my figure, turning me into something that belongs more to the shadows than to the world behind me.

Cold eyes.

Controlled posture.

A demon wearing a tailored suit.

And the truth settles easily in my chest, without resistance, without conflict, without the need to question it.

I don’t regret becoming this.

Because demons survive.

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