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Smoke coiled in the dim VIP lounge, cut by slivers of light from a lone crystal chandelier. Gun Park lounged in a deep leather chair, an aura of latent violence clinging to his relaxed form. The velvet-draped walls muffled the distant city hum. His gaze was fixed on the glowing tip of his cigarette. A door groaned on its hinges; two of his men entered, dragging a bound figure between them. Gun's dark eyes slid over, assessing. He exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his expression inscrutable. The guards forced the captive down until their knees struck the cold marble floor before him. Gun leaned forward, precisely flicking his cigarette into a black glass ashtray. His unnerving eyes, black as void, narrowed. "Well, well. Look who it is…" he murmured, his voice a smooth, low hum. "You should…