In a dark, damp room in France, shadows danced across the walls as the faint sound of dripping water echoed in the silence.
Kingsly Scott sat on a soft sofa in the dimly lit corner of the room, his long legs crossed. He held a glass of an unknown liquid in his right hand, lazily watching an older man kneeling before him.
The man's hair was disheveled, his knees scraped and bleeding from being forced to kneel, and his wrinkled face marked with bruises from beatings. Trembling with fear, he stammered, "Young Master, please... please spare me. I was ungrateful and driven by greed back then, but I only stole some documents for the Fosters. I swear I didn't do anything else... I know nothing else..."
Liam Archer, standing nearby, gave the man a sharp kick. "How dare you call him 'Young Master'?"
