The evening air around the Ministry of Security’s residence was crisp, tinged with the faint aroma of freshly pruned hedges that lined the vast compound.Floodlights swept across the stone walls, illuminating guards stationed at every corner. The black vehicle that carried Logan pulled to a slow halt at the main entrance.Logan stepped out with measured calm, dressed in a perfectly tailored dark suit that whispered power without the need for words. His jaw was set, eyes sharp, and demeanor commanding—he was a man who carried storms within him yet concealed them beneath a composed exterior.The guards, upon verifying his details, wasted no time. One of them gave a crisp salute, the kind reserved for men who mattered. “Mr. Brooks, you are expected. Please, this way.”He was ushered past the grand double doors of the Ministry’s residence, where polished marble floors gleamed under golden chandeliers. The corridor was wide, lined with oil paintings of national heroes and towering fig

The day had been long—too long. Logan's shoulders ached and his eyes burned with fatigue. All he wanted was to reach home, take a shower, and sink into bed. Logan tapped the steering wheel impatiently, glancing now and then at the dashboard clock. It was almost midnight. Then, just ahead, two vehicles appeared out of nowhere—parked side by side, completely blocking the narrow road. At first, Logan thought maybe it was a minor accident or that one of the cars had broken down. But as he drew closer, he realized that the cars looked perfectly fine—no hazard lights, no signs of distress. His brows furrowed. Something about the scene didn’t feel right. He slowed down, flashed his headlights once, then twice, hoping they’d move. When no one budged, he pressed his horn—short bursts at first, then longer ones. The blare shattered the quiet night, echoing through the trees. Still, nothing. Frustration surged through him. “What the hell is wrong with these people?” he muttered und

The moment Mart barked the order, his men didn’t hesitate. The air in the abandoned house thickened with violent energy. One of them stepped forward and gripped Logan by the hair, jerking his head up. His eyelids fluttered open at last, slow and heavy like someone surfacing from a deep coma. His pupils tried to adjust to the harsh glare of the ring lights shining directly into his face. Confusion flickered across his bloodstained features as he squinted against the brightness.“Wake up, Iron Hand,” Mart mocked from somewhere behind the lights. “Wake up and show the world what a legend looks like when he’s crawling.”The words cut through Logan’s daze, dragging him further back into consciousness. The metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, and every nerve screamed from the bruises already swelling beneath his skin. He coughed, trying to lift his head. But before he could fully orient himself, a boot connected with his ribs, forcing out a sharp grunt.Another blow followed.

Within a short while, the room filled.They came in a tide—boots thudding on splintered floorboards, the scrape of glinting metal against belts, the low susurration of conversation folding into a single, savage murmur. One by one, they poured through the broken doorway until every shadowed corner was occupied, until the dim lightbulbs hanging from frayed wires seemed to shiver under the weight of so many bodies. Close to forty men now crowded the ruined living room: broad shoulders, hard faces, eyes dull with the practiced cruelty of people who had seen too much and felt nothing. The house itself seemed to recoil, timber groaning softly as if to protest the way it had been turned into a stage for this kind of malice.“All of you in?” Mart called, voice booming, as if someone might still be late. “Forty strong and hungry. Beautiful. Perfect.”A raucous cheer answered him—half bark, half barked.Mart’s eyes glittered as he considered the tableau. “You lot know why you’re here,” he s

Mart was no ordinary man.He stood at the far end of the shattered room with his body wrapped in the infamous Cloak of Power. The dark garment shimmered faintly under the dim lights, like black smoke swirling against his shoulders.Those who had followed him for years knew what that meant—the cloak was said to be crafted with enchantments passed down through generations, enhancing the strength, rage, and endurance of whoever wore it.Some of his men, still writhing on the ground, managed to look up. Their beaten faces twisted into weary smirks. They could feel the raw power radiating from Mart like waves of heat. His veins pulsed visibly beneath his skin, his eyes glowing faintly red with fury and adrenaline. A faint hum seemed to vibrate through the floorboards beneath him.They could tell that something was about to happen.“Now,” one of them whispered hoarsely, dragging himself up by the broken frame of a chair. “Now he’ll finish that bastard…”Logan stood in the middle of the