KING MAGNUS’ TORTURE CELL
Damon groaned, his head hanging low as blood trickled down his face and over his bruised chest. His body was chained to a thick metal chair in the center of King Magnus’ private torture cell, a dimly lit room reeking of iron and damp stone. The smell of blood mixed with the faintest scent of something more sinister—despair. He didn't understand why he was being punished to this extent. Damon had come to California, believing that this business meeting with King Magnus would mark a new opportunity, a chance for growth and power. But now, bound and broken, he was realizing just how wrong he’d been.
Suddenly, the heavy iron gate creaked open, and Magnus entered, his steps slow and deliberate, satisfaction painted across his face. His dark eyes glinted with a cruel amusement as he surveyed Damon’s disheveled state.
"Looks like someone’s been enjoying their stay here,” Magnus mocked, crossing his arms as he took a menacing step forward.
Damon lifted his head, wincing as he met Magnus' gaze. "Your Majesty," he stammered, his voice barely a whisper, “What have I done to deserve this? I’ve been nothing but a good ally. I came here with nothing but respect and good intentions. I… I’ve even worked with the Crimson Fangs Pack before, you know that! Please… tell me my crime.”
Magnus let out a dark, humorless laugh and turned to Fergus, who was standing at his side, his face unreadable. "Did you hear that, Fergus? He claims he's a ‘good boy.’” His sneer deepened as he faced Damon again, his eyes narrowing in contempt.
Desperate, Damon took a shaky breath, trying to appeal to reason. "King Magnus," he began, his voice trembling, "what will happen if the world finds out about… this side of you? That you’re keeping a torture cell and..." He paused, hoping the threat might temper Magnus’ cruelty. But Magnus’ only response was a sinister smile that chilled him to the bone.
“Everyone knows what I am, Damon,” Magnus said, his voice as cold as steel. “I’m ruthless, I’m dangerous, and I run one of the deadliest drug empires. People who cross me end up dead, and those who survive… they wish they hadn’t.” His hand shot forward, gripping Damon’s face with iron strength, forcing him to look directly into his eyes. “You’re no ‘good boy,’ Damon.”