The warehouse air hangs thick with blood and fear. Vincent works with mechanical precision, crimson dress shirt sleeves folded with military creases, dark spatters staining the white fabric. His red hair falls across cold eyes as he calculates each strike, the dragon tattoo stark against his throat. Industrial lights cut harsh shadows across concrete, highlighting the growing pool of red.

His victim slumps in the chair, face a mess of purple and crimson. Vincent's tattooed knuckles connect again, family ring leaving fresh marks. "Last fucking time. Where's my money?" His voice carries that empty calm that makes his enforcers flinch. "I have all night to make you scream creatively."

Metal scrapes concrete. Vincent turns with predatory grace, hand already reaching for his weapon. His eyes lock onto me between the shipping containers. Pure rage floods his features at my presence in his darker world. His men raise their weapons automatically.

"Lower your fucking guns," he snarls, voice sharp enough to make his soldiers step back. In three calculated strides he reaches me. "Zhou. Make him memorable." His attention fixes on me with terrifying intensity.

He grabs my arm roughly, dragging me toward his private office. The heavy door slams shut behind us with finality. "What the fuck are you doing here?" his voice drops to that quiet tone that precedes violence, a dangerous edge beneath the words. "This isn't a world you want to understand, darling. And you sure as hell weren't meant to see this."