Chapter 568
Chapter 568
On the other side of SunCity—In the place where Harold had been left behind with the men involved in his dealings.
The concrete room felt far quieter after the iron door slammed behind Cale and Chris.
The floodlight hanging from the ceiling still burned harshly, casting hard shadows across the cold floor. The air was damp and heavy, thick with the lingering scent of dried blood and sweat.
Harold was still strapped in a metal chair.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
His face was covered in bruises. The corner of his lip was split. Dried blood clung to his chin. One eye had swollen nearly shut. Every breath sent a sharp ache through his ribs and down his back.
But his gaze hadn’t changed. Hard. Sharp. Unwilling to admit defeat.
In the corner of the room, two guards stood at a distance. Unlike before, they were no longer on full alert. One leaned casually against the wall. The other stood with his arms folded, not even looking directly at the detainees.
Several of the men being held with Harold exchanged glances. The tension that had weighed heavily over the room began to loosen. One of them let out a long breath.
“He’s gone,” one of them whispered.
Harold clicked his tongue softly. The small movement sent a pulse of pain across his face, but he didn’t show it.
“You all look like you’ve just seen a demon,” he rasped. “Why be afraid of one man p>
No one answered.
But the shift in the atmosphere was unmistakable. The suffocating fear that had filled the room earlier was slowly giving way to cautious alertness–mixed with something that almost felt like hope.
Several minutes passed. No one came. There was no interrogation from the guards, no more beatings meant to force information out of them. No heavy footsteps echoing back and forth through the corridor.
Then one of the guards walked over. He loosened the restraints on one of the detainees. Without a word, he did the same for the others.
Including Harold.
The bindings around his wrists fell away. Pain flared immediately as he tried to move his hands. His skin was raw. His muscles are stiff. Still, Harold slowly curled his fingers into a fist.
His eyes swept across the room.
“Don’t think you’re safe,” the guard warned, his face expressionless but his eyes sharp as they locked onto
Harold.
He grabbed Harold’s face roughly for a moment–then let go.
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The guards moved away again. One of them even sat down on a folding chair near the door, his head lowered as he stared at his phone. No one was watching them directly anymore. And as the minutes passed, the guards seemed to grow even more distant from the room where they were being held.
What confused them the most–every one of Cale’s detainees–was that no one stood on the exit path.
It was as if they were being given a chance to walk out. Their restraints had been removed. What did this mean? Harold was the first to read the situation.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet.
The moment his body lifted from the metal chair, pain struck him without mercy. His knees nearly gave out. The muscles in his thighs trembled violently, as if they could no longer support his weight. He held his breath, jaw tightening, forcing himself to remain upright even as his vision dimmed for a few seconds.
The pain spread from his raw wrists up to his shoulders, then crashed into his bruised ribs. Every breath felt like a blade pressing from the inside. His chest burned–tight, heavy, hot.
But Harold didn’t sit back down.
He straightened his back little by little. His movements were stiff and restrained but driven by sheer will. One hand pressed against his side, trying to dull the pain in his ribs before he forced himself to take a step forward.
The first step felt heavy.
His foot touched the floor carefully, as if each contact might trigger a new wave of pain. His knee wobbled. His body pitched forward slightly, nearly losing balance. He clenched his teeth, refusing to fall.
No one stopped him.
He took a short breath and stepped again.
The second step hurt even more. His back tightened. The muscles in his legs trembled under the strain. Every movement made the bruises across his body throb–especially along his face and ribs.
The dried blood at the corner of his mouth stung again as he tightened his jaw.
Still, the guards did nothing.
Harold began to move faster, though his steps remained unsteady. His shoulders slanted slightly, his breathing uneven. Every two steps, he had to pause for a brief second, fighting the sharp pain stabbing through his chest.
Behind him, several of the other men began to follow. Their eyes were wide. Their breathing was ragged, their bodies still aching–but they kept moving.
“We can get out,” one of them whispered, his voice trembling between hope and fear.
Harold glanced back quickly. His face was battered, but his eyes had come alive again sharp, burning with conviction.
“ If you want to live, don’t stand there like idiots,” he said quietly but firmly. “This is our chance p>
He turned forward again. The door was only a few meters away. But to Harold, the distance felt endless. Each step toward it was a battle against his own body. His legs grew heavier. His breaths came shorter. Waves of
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dizziness flickered through him, making his vision tremble.
At one point, the tip of his shoe caught on an uneven patch of floor. He stumbled, nearly falling, but his hand shot out to the wall beside him, holding himself upright.
His breathing became more erratic. But he kept moving. The cold concrete wall became his brief support. Harold closed his eyes for a moment, drew in a shallow breath, then forced himself to move again.
One step. Then another. No guards came forward to stop them. The closer he got to the door, the faster he tried to move or at least, he pushed himself to move faster, even though his body was already at its limit.
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