A pained groan escaped his lips as the force of the punch sent him staggering backward.
His vision blurred for a split second, but before he could regain his footing, Tryson was already looming over him, fury burning in his eyes like an unrelenting storm.
"Get up," Tryson’s voice was low, sharp, and commanding.
He grabbed the man by the collar, yanking him forward, his grip tightening as he stared into his swollen, bloodied face.
"What did you say?" His voice was cold, controlled, but the anger simred beneath the surface. "Arthur sent you here, didn’t he?"
The man coughed, blood speckling his already ruined shirt, but still, he refused to answer.
Tryson had beaten him rcilessly, yet the defiance in his eyes remained. Even after the relentless blows, even after the fear that should have set in by now, the man remained silent.
A few hours earlier, Tryson had been in his suite, casually getting dressed, preparing to step out and handle so business.
It was supposed to be just another routine evening—until he noticed sothing off. The man, the very one now beaten and barely able to stand, had been acting strangely.
Tryson had tried to shake the suspicion at first, dismissing it as paranoia. But the mont the man suddenly bolted, as if running for his life, Tryson knew.
He had to follow him.
The chase led them through dimly lit streets, weaving through unsuspecting crowds.
When Tryson finally caught up, pinning the man down, his sharp gaze landed on the small earpiece barely visible beneath his disheveled hair.
A direct line. A silent informant. And at that mont, Tryson knew—soone had sent him.
Riley? No.
She was still in the hospital, recovering.
That left only one obvious na. Arthur.
Arthur had to be the one keeping an eye on their movents, especially after the chaos Arthur had stirred up online.
He wasn’t naive enough to believe it was a coincidence. This was calculated. Soone wanted to stay one step ahead of him.
With the help of his n—disguised as civilians for tis exactly like this—Tryson had dragged the man out of the hotel, away from prying eyes.
At the sa ti, he’d made arrangents.
Samson had been called to watch over Angel. The man had protested at first, reluctant to be dragged into yet another one of Tryson’s sses, but in the end, he agreed.
Now, Tryson stood over his prisoner, his patience thinning with every second of silence.
His fists clenched at his sides, itching to land another blow, but even with the repeated hits, the man wasn’t breaking.
"Track his device," Tryson had ordered his n earlier. But after scouring through every possible signal, nothing ca up.
Whoever sent him had been careful.
But Tryson wasn’t done.
He knew Arthur was involved. He could feel it.
But he needed to be absolutely certain before making his next move. And that ant breaking the man in front of him—one way or another.
As frustration crept in, Tryson felt himself beginning to lose hope that the man would ever talk.
No amount of force had broken him, no number of blows had loosened his tongue.
But Tryson wasn’t one to give up so easily. If brute strength wasn’t enough, he would resort to sothing far more effective.
A strategy. A thod that would leave the man with no choice but to speak.
With one final, devastating punch, Tryson sent the man’s head snapping to the side. Blood trickled from his split lip, his once-structured face now battered and swollen beyond recognition.
Without wasting a mont, Tryson turned to his n.
"Bring so thylated spirit," he ordered, his voice calm but laced with nace. "Let’s see if our friend here is truly as stubborn as he seems."
The man’s chest rose and fell in heavy, ragged breaths, his body slumping against the chair.
He was exhausted, barely holding on, but still refusing to give in. Tryson’s n moved swiftly, rearranging the room, setting up a seat for their captive—one where he’d be made to feel every ounce of his suffering.
Tryson crouched in front of him, watching as the man struggled to keep his gaze steady. "It seems like you’re not planning to talk anyti soon," he murmured, almost casually.
Right on cue, his n returned, placing the requested bottle of thylated spirit on the table beside him.
Tryson straightened, rolling his shoulders before stepping forward, reaching for the cotton wool. He dipped it into the liquid, letting it soak for a mont before turning his attention back to the man.
"Your wound needs to be treated," Tryson said smoothly, his voice carrying an eerie calmness. "After all, if you’re not willing to speak, at least I can help you heal."
Then, without hesitation, he pressed the soaked cotton against the raw, open wound.
A sharp, agonized hiss tore from the man’s lips as he recoiled against the searing pain. His entire body stiffened, fingers curling into tight fists as if to anchor himself against the unbearable sting.
Tryson rely smiled, glancing down at the bottle in his hands.
They had added a little sothing extra to the mix—a special chemical designed to accelerate healing, but with an excruciating burning sensation that would make it near impossible to endure.
A tornt like fire licking through flesh, leaving behind agony in its wake.
"You have one chance," Tryson said, his voice dropping into an icy whisper. He let the first cotton ball fall to the ground, already reaching for another. "Did Arthur send you here?"
He held the next soaked cotton in his hand, waiting, ready.
The man’s silence was admirable—but it wouldn’t last much longer.
"I really don’t have any more ti to waste here," Tryson muttered, his tone laced with impatience as he slowly lifted the soaked cotton wool toward the man’s cheek.
The captive’s breath hitched, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring.
Every nerve in his system scread in terror as he watched the cotton inch closer, the re thought of that searing pain enough to send a violent shiver down his spine.
His resolve, which had held strong through countless blows, wavered.
And then, before he could even process his own actions, the words tumbled from his lips in a desperate rush.
"Yes! I was sent to spy on her!"
Tryson halted, the cotton just a breath away from making contact. A slow, satisfied smile curled his lips as he straightened, eyes gleaming with triumph.
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