CHAPTER 482: LAST CHANCE

Night deepened.

In the underground storage room of the hotel, Sinclair, a man of noble yet aloof demeanor, lounged lazily in his chair.

Between his long, well-defined fingers rested a lit cigar.

Pale gray smoke curled from his lips and nostrils, rising in delicate wisps before dissipating into the air.

It veiled his strikingly handsome features, rendering them indistinct.

The scent of nicotine hung thick in the room.

Behind him stood a row of stern-faced, burly mercenaries, their presence amplifying the oppressive atmosphere that filled the warehouse.

The silence was abruptly shattered as Ramsey entered with his men.

"President Luther, we’ve brought them," he announced, gesturing behind him.

At his signal, the mercenaries dragged in five bloodied E-country men, their bodies scraping roughly against the floor before being unceremoniously dumped with heavy thuds.

Sinclair exhaled a slow stream of smoke, his thin lips parting slightly.

"Harrison family’s men?"

The deep, magnetic voice speaking in English carried little inflection, yet it seemed to drop the temperature in the vast warehouse by several degrees.

Several pairs of eyes stared darkly at Sinclair, but no one spoke.

The moment they realized they had been exposed, they had already resolved to keep their mouths shut.

Sinclair’s thin lips curved slightly.

Instead of pressing further, he lifted his gaze and gave Ramsey a casual glance.

Ramsey immediately understood.

With a sharp nod, he stepped forward and delivered a brutal kick to one of the kneeling men.

"Mr. Luther is asking you a question.

Are you deaf?"

**BANG!**

The force of the kick sent the man sprawling forward, his face smashing hard against the concrete floor.

**"Pfft—"**

Gritting his teeth, the man struggled to lift his head, his face covered in scrapes.

The moment he opened his mouth, several broken teeth spilled out, blood streaming down his chin.

Sinclair leaned back in his seat, long legs crossed, watching the scene unfold with cold amusement.

The obsidian ring on his finger glinted under the harsh lights, its surface as icy as his gaze.

"You damn American bastard, always fighting dirty," the man spat, twisting his head to glare venomously at Ramsey before hawking a mouthful of blood in his direction.

"Go ahead—kill me if you’ve got the guts!"

The other men also wore grim expressions. "Heh," Ramsey sneered.

"You think I don’t have the guts?"

With that, he strode forward in a few quick steps and kicked the man to the ground again, pressing the sole of his polished leather shoe against his head with increasing force.

"Agh—"

The man’s face twisted in agony, his howls of pain pitiful and desperate.

Blood first trickled from his nose and mouth, then from his eyes, until his entire visage was a grotesque mask of crimson horror.

The others clenched their jaws, struggling to suppress their rising fear as they watched the scene unfold.

"Your bones aren’t half as tough as your mouth.

Is this what all you E-country men are like?"

Ramsey smirked coldly, grinding his heel down with full force against the man’s temple.

The man’s eyes bulged as he twitched weakly—then fell still.

The wailing ceased. Now motionless on the ground, he lay there, lifeless—or perhaps not.

The remaining E-country men watched the scene unfold, their pupils involuntarily contracting in shock.

These San Francisco men were far more brutal than they had anticipated.

Ramsey strode forward, closing in on another captive.

"No need to rush," Sinclair’s thin lips curled into a faint, chilling smile, as if the unfolding spectacle had thoroughly amused him.

"We Americans are known for our generosity," he said, his voice smooth yet laced with menace.

"Let’s give them one last chance."

His piercing gaze swept over the four men before him, the interplay of light and shadow accentuating the sharp angles of his striking face—half illuminated, half shrouded in darkness.

"Well?"

he murmured, his tone deceptively calm.

"Your answer—yes, or no?"

The gaze of this man was utterly terrifying!

The remaining four men locked eyes with Sinclair, and an icy dread crawled up their spines, chilling them to the bone.

Hesitation flickered in their eyes.

But the thought of their families—also under the Harrison family’s control—made them clench their jaws and swallow their words.

Silence might cost them their lives.

But speaking?

That would doom not just them, but their loved ones too.

"Seems you still need some convincing," Sinclair’s lips curved into a deeper smile, his obsidian eyes as fathomless as an abyss.

"You two—go assist them."

His tone was devoid of inflection, yet the four men on the ground sensed the razor’s edge of danger in his words.

Assist them?

What the hell did that mean?

"Understood!"

"Right away—"

The two mercenaries behind stepped forward, casually grabbing a bald man and dragging him toward the abandoned, dust-covered meat grinder in the corner of the hotel.

At the sight of the machine, the man’s legs gave out entirely, his body paralyzed with terror.

"Stop—stop!"

His teeth chattered uncontrollably, his entire frame trembling as if his very soul had frozen over.

"What—what do you want from me?!"

No one answered.

One mercenary flipped the switch, the machine roaring to life, while the other forced the man’s arm forward toward the grinding maw.

"No—no, please—"

The bald man’s pupils dilated to their limits, his terror so palpable it seemed to thicken the air.

The remaining three men seemed to realize what was coming.

Their eyes shrank to pinpricks, all color draining from their faces until they were ashen with dread.

"Please, I’m begging you—don’t!!"

A sharp, acrid stench spread as the man’s trousers darkened with urine.

The two mercenaries wrinkled their noses in unison, then moved faster, shoving his arm into the machine with brutal efficiency.

A pulpy, crimson mess oozed out the other end in smooth, uniform strands.

"AAAAAH—AAAAAHHH—"

The torment was both psychological and visceral.

Piercing screams echoed through the warehouse, sending chills down the spine of anyone who heard them.

The three remaining men watched their comrade’s suffering, their own bodies tensing as if they could feel his agony.

With each of the bald man’s howls, an excruciating pain seemed to seep into their very bones, as though their own flesh was being flayed.

The sum of all their fears over the years paled in comparison to the terror they felt now.

"You damn American—weak, pathetic scum!

Just kill me already!"

"All you Americans are filthy cowards!"

"Go on, kill me, you twisted bastard!"

The bald man was beyond reason, his words slurred with pain.

All he wanted now was to provoke the man before him into ending his misery.

But fate had other plans.

"Slow the machine down," Sinclair ordered, his expression unreadable.

Only the icy, predatory gleam in his eyes betrayed the dark satisfaction beneath.

"Don’t let him die until the very last moment."

Watching yourself turn into a bloody pulp must be quite the experience.

"Got it!"

The two mercenaries nodded and immediately got to work.

Serves you right, you reckless fool.

Ramsey sneered inwardly.

The slower, the more excruciating. Both physically and mentally.

Everyone else understood this perfectly well.

"You can’t do this—"

The bald man shook his head in terror, struggling futilely against his restraints.

"Agh... AAAAAHHH!!"

The bone-deep agony surged in waves, each more unbearable than the last.

Before long, the bald man’s eyes rolled back, and he passed out from the sheer, unbearable torment.