Return of the God of war: Chaos awaits

Chapter 6

The elevator hummed as it ascended, its walls polished to a cold mirror shine. On the small digital panel above the doors, a single red number glowed: 1. No keypad. No buttons. No way to choose a floor. Just that lonely number hanging there like the verdict of a judge.

“Why isn’t it to the decken?” Draven asked, his voice sharp, yanking Claire’s hair backward with a violent jerk.

“Ouch!” Claire whimpered, her body jerking with the pain.

“Answer me,” Draven ordered, his voice echoing inside the confined metal cage. His grip tightened around her scalp like a vise, flattening strands of her red hair between his fingers.

“The…..the floor,” Claire stuttered, breath shaking as tears formed in her eyes. “The elevator is programmed to go to the floor above it. To get to the top floor you need to go through each admin security on each floor. The security gives access to the next…. next floor.”

Château Noireluxe had once belonged to Khan Luxe, a titan of global real estate whose name meant price tags that made politicians choke. Now it belonged to Veyron. Everything in the building was reprogrammed to his preferences, including the elevator access: floor-by-floor authentication, no direct path to his lounge at the top floor. Most guests thought it was for exclusivity, but Draven knew it was for paranoia.

Her fingers clawed at his hand, desperate, nails scraping against his skin as though she could unhook his strength by will alone.

“Please,” she breathed, voice cracking as tears rolled. “Let me go.”

“Not yet,” Draven replied, his grip tightening further, his calm contrasting her panic.

Chim!

The elevator chimed open with a smooth mechanical sigh, revealing a vast hallway ahead.

The floor was marble, polished to a wet sheen, reflecting soft chandelier light that spilled across the corridor in gentle gold waves. The scent of expensive cologne and sterilized air mixed in the atmosphere, carrying a sterile luxury,  the kind that belonged to rich men who thought themselves as gods.

Draven dragged Claire forward by her hair. She stumbled, her heels scraping against the floor as she whimpered.

“Please,” she sobbed, voice trembling. “I’ll walk…I’ll walk with you. Just…please stop pulling my hair.”

Her plea fell hollow against Draven’s cold silence. He tugged her down the hallway, guiding her into a large hall at the far end.

“Where to? And who are you?” a masculine voice boomed from somewhere within the shadows.

Draven paused, eyes shifting to the corner.

A huge man stepped out into the light, tall, muscular, dressed in a black tuxedo that fit him too well to be mere decoration. His presence warped the room, filling the air with menace. But his expression shifted when he saw Claire. Her eyes red. Makeup smeared. Hair twisted in Draven’s grip like a rope.

“Claire, my love?” the man asked, his voice trembling beneath the anger. His fist clenched.

“Please,” Claire whispered, her voice breaking.

Draven rolled her hair again in his grip, twisting it tighter. Her lips parted in a soundless cry.

“Lovers, I see,” Draven thought, amusement flicking briefly across his face.

“How dare you?” the man roared, rage igniting through his chest. He slid a rifle from beneath his suit jacket with practiced ease, the barrel glinting beneath chandelier light.

“Give me access to the top floor and she lives,” Draven said, voice carrying a deadly certainty. “Act like an idiot and her skull gets smashed right before you.”

The man laughed. But there was nothing warm or humorous in it. It was a brittle laugh, the laugh of a man who believed in his own power too much.

“And who exactly do you think you are?” he barked, cocking the gun and pointing its muzzle straight at Draven’s forehead.

“I’m exactly what I am,” Draven replied flatly, tightening his hold around Claire’s throat now.

Her breath caught. Her fingers clawed at his wrist, weak and trembling.

“Please…Kaleb… please help me,” Claire begged, voice stuttering between sobs. Tears rolled freely now, gathering at her chin and dripping onto the polished floor.

Kaleb’s eyes burned with fury, jaw clenched as the two emotions warred inside him— rage and helplessness. Claire was his girlfriend. Or his lover. Or whatever name they had whispered between sheets. To him she was the love of his life. To her? He was nothing more than a toy, a body to warm her nights and a wallet to fatten her days. But in this moment, Kaleb didn’t see that truth. All he saw was Claire, vulnerable and in another man’s grip.

As Kaleb kept the rifle steady with one hand, he tapped a button on his belt with the other. A sharp electronic beep echoed through the room.

Within seconds, ten men dressed in black came rushing in from the hallways. Boots struck the floor in synchronized rhythm. Each man carried a weapon, pistols, rifles, batons, all aimed at Draven.

Kaleb smirked.

“Now you’re finished,” he sneered. “Let go of my woman or meet your maker.”

His men spread out, encircling Draven in a widening arc of polished gunmetal.

Claire’s chest shook with sobs. Draven’s posture didn’t shift, not an inch. His grip tightened simply because he could, forcing Claire to gasp for air.

Kaleb raised his rifle, thumb sliding over the trigger with pride, as though he had already imagined Draven’s body crumpled at his feet.