Inside, the air smelled of oil and old blood. And there, tied to a chair in the center of the grease-stained floor, was a woman. Her wrist bore no butterfly tattoo. Instead, a small rose. Fresh bruising.
Then a click. Then silence.
A man's voice, calm and unhurried: "Good morning, Veronica. I wanted you to see the merchandise before we discuss terms." good morning.veronica