The Frustrated Xander

Xander's Private Residence.

Xander didn't go to work today. Instead, he remained at home, dealing with the matter that had caused tension between him and his wife.

Down in the basement, the air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood. Dim yellow light flickered from the lone bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting eerie shadows against the cold concrete walls.

Daniel Firth was bound to a metal chair, his wrists tightly cuffed behind him. His face was bruised, his white Arsenal-issued undershirt stained with blotches of red. His breathing was heavy and laboured—each inhale and exhale was a testament to the agony he had endured for the past two hours.

Xander stood before him, his expression unreadable, his posture relaxed yet exuding lethal dominance.

Liam stood a few feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, while three burly-looking men—Xander's trusted enforcers—flanked Daniel on either side.