573 "Don't take the first bite." The words didn't just break the silence; they shattered it.

The North River warehouse was an industrial graveyard of rusted shipping containers, stagnant river water, and flickering halogen lamps that hummed a low, dying tune against the damp midnight chill.

Inside the primary holding bay, the air smelled of salt, diesel, and old iron.

Julian Cross sat tied to a heavy steel pillar, his head hanging low, blood crusting along his split lip and dripping onto the concrete floor. His bespoke suit was ruined, stained with grime and sweat.

Heavy footsteps echoed across the hollow floor.

Julian didn't look up immediately. He knew the sound of those boots. They belonged to the man who owned the city—the man Julian had tried to betray, assassinate, and overthrow in a single, catastrophic evening.

Roman Sokolov stepped into the harsh halo of the halogen light. He wasn't wearing his tuxedo anymore. He wore a heavy black wool overcoat, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, his breath pluming in the freezing air like dragon smoke.

"Julian," Roman said softly.

Julian raised his head slowly, his eyes bloodshot and defiant. A bitter, broken laugh escaped his throat.

"Go ahead, Roman," Julian rasped, his voice raw. "Get it over with. Put a bullet in my skull and dump me in the Hudson. That’s what men like us do when someone tries to grab the crown."

Roman stopped three feet away. He didn't pull a gun. He didn't signal Viktor, who stood quietly in the shadows behind him like an executioner waiting for a nod.

"A bullet is too fast for a traitor, Julian," Roman said, his voice dangerously calm. "And death is an escape you haven't earned yet."

Julian’s defiant facade wavered for a second. "Then what do you want? My bank accounts? They're already frozen. My offshore shells? Your forensic accountants wiped them out by midnight."

"I don't want your money, Julian," Roman replied, stepping closer. "Money is just paper. What I want is your absence. From this city. From this life. From every ledger, every record, and every memory in Chicago."

Julian frowned, confusion flashing through his pain-addled mind. "What are you talking about?"

Roman pulled a manila folder from inside his heavy overcoat and dropped it onto the concrete floor right between Julian’s boots. The corner of the folder flipped open, revealing a fresh set of identity papers, a passport bearing a foreign name, and a one-way airline ticket to a remote coastal town in South America.

"Starting tonight, Julian Cross is dead," Roman said coldly. "Your assets are seized, your name is wiped from every corporate registry in the state, and your existence is erased. If you ever set foot in North America again—if you ever so much as whisper the name Sokolov to a customs agent—my men won't use a gun. They'll feed you to the river block by block."

Julian stared down at the passport. The face on the document wasn't his. The name was completely foreign.

"You're... you're letting me live?" Julian whispered, the disbelief heavy in his chest.

"I'm giving you exile," Roman corrected sharply. "A second chance at a small, miserable, insignificant life where no one will ever know who you were. Take it as the only mercy you'll ever receive from me."

Roman turned his back on the fixer without waiting for an answer. He walked out of the halo of light, his heavy boots echoing off the concrete as he headed toward the waiting town car outside.