The Door

**Disclaimer: This chapter contains scenes of violence that may be unsettling to some readers. Viewer discretion is advised.**

Donovan entered the room, expecting to see Liora—safe and unharmed. Expecting to see Raynor's men standing guard, handling those billionaire brats like the filth they were, ensuring Liora remained untouched.

Instead, he was met with an oppressive silence that was both mysterious and unsettling.

There were no sign of Raynor's men

Only a handful of privileged bastards kneeled on the floor, heads bowed, shoulders trembling as if the air had been sucked from their lungs.

And Liora… nowhere in sight.

"Where is she?"

A slow, unnatural stillness settled in Donovan's bones, spreading through his body like venom, but his face remained unreadable. He had learned long ago that true rage did not explode—it burned, slow and unrelenting, like an eternal flame that would consume everything in its path.

His eyes moved methodically, scanning every inch of the room. This place stank of sweat, liquor, and cowardice. But then—something caught his eye—a smear of red.

Blood!

There was a fresh blood mark on the door-like frame at the far end of the room. None of the men here in the room had wounds or any blood on them. Which left with one possibility. 'Liora's blood?' The possibility alone was enough to make his fingers twitch and his jaw clench. A breath left him; it was slow and controlled as he forced himself to assess—not react.

He moved, his footsteps echoing like the ticking of a countdown—a prelude to devastation. His gaze locked onto Roland. The bastard was kneeling a little closer to the door-like frame, clutching something—white fabric.

Donovan took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain anchored to reason. He bent down on his toes, his sharp eyes fixating on the shirt Roland gripped in his one hand. The white shirt in Roland's grasp wasn't his. He was still dressed, as were the rest of them. 

"Could it have been....?" Donovan dared not finish his thought as his intense grey eyes grew darker. The hidden darkness inside him was throbbing to escape—a feeling he never wanted to embrace, yet people made it seem impossible for him to avoid. His fingers twitched at his side, not in hesitation, not in fear, but in restraint.

"ROLAND." Donovan's voice carried an undercurrent that resembled the low growl. The kind of calm that came before hurricanes that flattened cities, before wars that left empires in ruin.

Roland coughed, his grip tightening on the fabric until his knuckles turned pale. He looked like he had just been jolted awake from a dream. He shook his head before lifting up his to look up—to meet Donovan's fiery, merciless gaze.

"Whose is that?" Donovan questioned, though he knew the answer he wanted to hear from him.

Roland had stared into the many eyes of powerful men before. But as he met Donovan Magnum's gaze, he realized—he was staring into the abyss itself.

"What are you doing here?" Roland asked.

Donovan didn't answer. He didn't need to. His fist swung in a blur of ruthless force, crashing into Roland's face with a sickening crunch that shattered the silent, eerie air. Blood erupted. A dark crimson river poured from his nose, cascading over his lips and chin and staining his designer suit.

Roland fell hard onto his butt, a scream tearing from his throat as his hands flew to his face. Trembling fingers, the white shirt still wrapped around it, scrambled to stem the damage, desperately trying to piece together what was already beyond repair. The white shirt soon soaked in red liquid.

"My nose—my nose—my nose!" The words came out garbled, his voice high with agony. Tears pooled in his eyes, mixing with the blood dripping down his face like a twisted, grotesque painting.

Donovan stood over him, unmoving, cold and silent, watching Roland. His knuckles throbbed from the impact of punching with his entire force, but the ache was insignificant. The anger in his chest was louder. It needed more.

"I asked," he said, voice sharp as a blade, "Whose is that?"

Roland hardly had a moment to inhale before Donovan's kick with one leg struck his torso. The air in his lungs vanished—ripped away, stolen. His body folded inward, his mouth opening in a scream before he collapsed to one side, curling and clutching his stomach.

He gagged, his body convulsing like a fish thrown onto dry land, pain twisting his features into something barely human. Around them, his nine other friends jolted awake—as if emerging from a drugged haze. Their expressions soon shifted from confusion to horror. They weren't just watching a man get beaten. They were witnessing the consequences of stepping into Donovan Magnum's world. A world, a place in Valtham where men like Roland weren't kings. They were insects in Valtham—easily crushed by Capo dei Capi of city Valtham, the Legendary Valtham's buddy and their right-hand man!

Donovan was preparing for another blow—this time, aimed at Roland's chin. But before his foot connected, Roland sputtered, voice shaking through the pain. "It's—it's a girl's shirt..."

Roland was trembling, a pitiful wreck on the floor, blood smearing his lips, his breath uneven. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his pride far more bruised than his body. His mind swirled with indignation, anger flickering behind his pained expression. Why was Donovan here? What business did he have in Roland's personal affairs? This was his damn bachelor party.

His nails dug into his palms in pain and in anger. Let him inform his father. He vowed to get back at Donovan for treating him like a trash can. The great Donovan Magnum wasn't above a defence minister. No matter how feared he was, he was still a businessman, a mafia, a criminal in a suit. And Roland's father? He was the law.

Through blood-stained lips, Roland spat venom, his voice a low, agonized growl.

"I did nothing wrong to you. Why are you even here? Don't you know who my father is, Donovan?"

Roland's glazed, pain-filled eyes locked onto Donovan's, burning with defiance even as he clutched his stomach, hunched over like a beaten dog.

"You'll pay for this, Donovan Magnum," he snarled, each word dripping with hatred, his blood pooling at his feet."Do you think my father will let you get away with this? You broke my nose, you bas—"

The impact came so fast that Roland didn't even see it coming.

Donovan's foot connected beneath his chin with a force that sent his head snapping back. A wet crack echoed through the room. The taste of blood flooded Roland's mouth, sharp and metallic, mixing with the sheer agony coursing through his skull.

The other men in the room froze, watching from the corners as the scene unfolded. They weren't afraid—not of Roland, not of Donovan. But they were calculating. Politicians or Businessmen?

They were uncertain about which side to support. Roland was their friend, but since they were in Valtham, standing against Donovan could leave them in a situation like Roland's at the moment. Their families had connections to both the Triad Wolfen group and a positive relationship with Roland's family. At that moment, they were trying to figure out which side would allow them to exit the room safely. It was a difficult decision, but they all agreed to remain neutral and observe; they were also curious about why Donovan Magnum was attacking Roland when he hadn't done anything to provoke Donovan or his cousins.

Roland coughed, the sound rattling in his throat as he spat red-streaked saliva onto the floor. His voice was more a wheeze than actual speech, but still, he had the audacity to push his luck.

"Is that bitch your fuck toy or what?"

The room fell deadly silent, like shadows creeping along the wall, deepening the room's darkness. The weight of Donovan's rage pressed into every corner. He bit down on his lower lip so hard he nearly drew blood. His hands clenched so tight that his veins protruded from beneath his skin. His entire body coiled like a demon, ready to tear down his prey.

Roland's friends hardly made a sound when their instincts warned them to steer clear of the situation. They were no longer observing a man but were witnessing a creature that had been set free.

Donovan dropped to his haunches, his movement slow, deliberate, like a reaper savouring the last moment before delivering a final blow.

His hand shot out—gripping Roland's collar with a force that nearly choked him. He yanked him up, forcing their eyes to meet.

"That girl..."

His voice was deep, calm and unwavering. Each word was like a blade, carving through the space between them.

"That girl…. is the only name my heart has ever known. And you—" The words didn't just echo in the room. They sliced through it like a knife through silk, so smooth and precise that it stilled the very breath of the atmosphere.

"And you—" his fingers twisted the fabric of Roland's suit, tightening around his throat, "a spineless human, laid a hand on her...the girl I am in love with."

Donovan Magnum—cold, untouchable, unreadable—had just claimed someone. And the way he said it, like an unshakable truth, like an oath written in blood.

Roland's eyes widened in fear and shock. The earth could have cracked open at that moment. The bystanders, the so-called men who had stood in amusement, felt their stomachs drop.

"I-I didn't—"

The next blow wasn't just a punch. It was an execution. His fist slammed into Roland's face with a force that sent his body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut.

His head lolled to the side, unconscious before he even hit the floor. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping into the cracks of the polished wood.

The room was dead silent again. No one dared to move or make a noise.

Donovan rose to his full height, towering over the lifeless body beneath him. He was a storm in human form. And God help anyone who tried to stand in his way.

Donovan turned his gaze toward the remaining men in the room. A chilling silence and suffocation wrapped around them. Their shoulders tensed, their bodies unable to move from the place. Fear had locked them in their own skins.

"Where is she?" Donovan's voice carried no patience. It was a command to be followed by everyone in that room.

As if pulled by invisible strings, every single one of them lifted their trembling hands at the same time, pointing in one direction.

Donovan followed their fingers. The moment his eyes landed on the peculiar door-like frame, a frown creased his brow. The frame was an actual door, and it wasn't ordinary. It was made of metal with intricate gold writing etched into its surface.

His pulse drummed against his skin, thick with something heavy. He exhaled sharply, stepping toward it, but not before giving the men one final, ice-cold glare. He raised a finger, pointing towards them, "Stay right there. If any of you move an inch—"

He didn't need to finish his sentence. The sheer terror in their eyes told him they had already received the message loud and clear.

Taking another deep breath, Donovan reached out and pressed his palm against the door. It swung open easily, soundless despite its heavy frame. A lump formed in his throat. He swallowed hard, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before stepping inside. His heart was hammering now, a relentless beat against his ribs.

'Is she alright? What must she be feeling right now? Will she ever find it in her heart to forgive me? Will I ever be able to forgive myself?'