C-5

"Get out, boy!" a gruff voice bellowed as Dean blasted the door open with a force born of military discipline. The door swung wide as though pushed by unseen hands—likely one of the lowlifes leaning against it—and what greeted him inside made his blood boil.

"Dammit, get away from her!" Dean roared, storming into the room. His eyes locked onto the sight before him: the coffee girl, a fragile figure with tears streaking her dirt-smeared face, lay sprawled on the cold floor. Her dress was in tatters, clinging desperately to her shivering form, while a cluster of thugs circled around her like vultures.

"Look who's here," sneered one of the brutes, his voice rough as gravel. "Seems like our knight in shining armor decided to drop by."

Dean's fists clenched, but he kept his gaze steady. "Let her go," he ordered, voice low and dangerous.

Another thug, clearly amused, scoffed, "You want to join us in enjoying our pretty prize, huh?" He crouched closer, his calloused hand trailing along the coffee girl's lap, eliciting a soft, frightened whimper from her.

"Back off!" Dean roared, advancing. "I said—let her go!"

The thug's smirk only widened as his cohorts erupted into mocking laughter, revealing brown, broken teeth as they jeered. "What did you just say, knight?" one of them taunted between bursts of laughter.

Dean's temper flared, and his eyes burned with controlled fury. "I said, let her go!" he repeated, his tone a mix of warning and promise.

From the corner of the room came a trembling voice—the coffee girl, barely managing to speak through pain and humiliation. "They… they'll hurt you. You should leave," she managed, blinking rapidly as her battered lips trembled.

"Leave? I'm not leaving without her," Dean snapped. With a swift motion, he spun around and slammed the door shut behind him, the sound echoing like a death knell to the criminals inside.

A pause fell, punctuated only by the labored breathing of the men. Then one of the thugs, his voice dripping with menace, jeered, "The only reason you stepped in here is if you want to join us in enjoying this." He leaned forward again, his hand lingering where it shouldn't, and Dean's blood ran hotter at the audacity.

"Let go of her!" Dean barked, his voice reverberating off the walls. His tone left no room for argument.

They all burst into raucous laughter. "No can do, knight in shining armor," the thug sneered, as he reached out with a mocking gesture. Before Dean could react, the sound of a cocking gun sliced through the tension.

"Don't you dare take a step!" the man with the firearm commanded, his voice icy as he leveled his gun at Dean.

For a brief, charged moment, Dean froze and slowly raised his hands in surrender—though every muscle in his body screamed with barely contained wrath. "Relax, guys," he drawled, his tone deceptively calm. "What exactly do you want from us?" His eyes scanned the room until they landed on a beaten man slumped in a chair—a man whose features echoed those of the coffee girl, suggesting a twisted familial link.

"What do you want to do?" the thugs demanded in unison, their voices mingling in a cacophony of disdain and challenge.

Dean's jaw tightened. "Maybe… help," he said nonchalantly, his hands still raised, waiting for the man with the gun to lower his weapon.

"You're lucky," one of them remarked, addressing the beaten man as his gaze shifted back to Dean. "We're not letting the girl go, though." The man with the gun tucked his weapon back into his trousers with a casual motion, a smug smile spreading across his face.

"Why?" Dean demanded, his voice a mix of incredulity and simmering rage. "She's the reason I'm here."

A twisted chuckle came from the man with the gun as he leaned forward, his eyes glinting with malicious intent. "Her damn brother sold her to us," he drawled slowly, savoring every syllable. "We can't let our merchandise go. She's my sex toy now." He licked his lips with deliberate cruelty, his gaze roaming over her like he was undressing her with his eyes.

At those words, Dean's fury surged. His knuckles whitened around his grip as he nodded slightly—an acknowledgement not of submission, but of the terrible cost being demanded. "He owes you a million dollars; pay up," the thug continued, spreading his open palm as though displaying the sum.

Dean's eyes narrowed, and without a word he reached behind his back. In one fluid motion, he drew a mini spear from its concealed holster, unsheathing it until its tip glinted ominously under the harsh light. The spear, elongated by his practiced hand, became a silent threat—a promise of retribution.

"Listen here," Dean said coolly, though his voice vibrated with barely restrained menace. "I'm not here to bargain over some petty debt. You want to hurt her, you'll have to go through me."

A brief silence followed as the men exchanged wary glances. The beaten man in the chair coughed weakly, and the thug with the gun, momentarily caught off guard, raised his eyebrows. "What do you plan to do, Dean?" he challenged, his tone laced with a mix of derision and curiosity.

Dean's reply was a low, measured growl. "I plan to make sure she gets out of here alive, and you all regret ever laying a hand on her." His eyes, cold and unyielding, locked onto the thug who had spoken last. "You're dealing with someone who doesn't forget, and I assure you, I don't forgive."

The room's tension deepened, the laughter dying away as the thugs assessed the shifting balance of power. One of them, a wiry man with a sneer, spoke up, "You really think you can stop us all, huh? We run this place, Dean. You're just one man."

Dean's lips curled in a bitter smile. "Maybe. But right now, you're dealing with a man who's had enough. Enough of your threats, enough of your abuse." He stepped closer, the spear steady in his grasp, his voice low and dangerous. "I didn't come here to be disrespected."

A murmur of dissent rippled through the group. The thug who had previously touched the coffee girl scoffed, "You think you can save her? Look around, man—this is our turf, and she's just merchandise."

The coffee girl's eyes met Dean's for a fleeting moment, pleading silently. "Please…" she whimpered, her voice breaking under the weight of terror and despair.

"Enough!" Dean roared, his voice echoing like thunder in the confined space. "I said, let her go now!" His spear was raised, the tip poised as a dire warning.

The thug with the gun hesitated, his hand twitching as he considered his next move. "You're making a mistake, Dean," he spat. "We've got orders, and we don't take kindly to interference."

Dean's gaze hardened. "Orders? I'm the one who makes the orders here." His tone was icy, and for a long moment, the room held its breath. "If you don't let her go, I promise you, you'll be the ones wishing you'd never drawn your weapons."

Another thug, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and defiance, asked, "So, what's it going to be? You gonna pay the debt for your lost merchandise?"

A twisted smile played on the thug's lips as he repeated, "Her damn brother sold her to us. She's mine now."

Dean's eyes blazed. "I'm not here to pay debts or negotiate with scum. I'm here to rescue her." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "And if any of you even think of laying a finger on her again, I won't hesitate."

The room fell silent for a heartbeat as the weight of his words settled in. Finally, the thug with the gun slowly lowered his weapon, though his eyes still burned with hostility. "Fine," he grunted, "but you know this isn't over. We're owed a million dollars, and you'll pay up, Dean."

Dean's response was measured, his jaw set in stone. "I'll get my money when I get her safely out of here." He glanced down at the coffee girl, whose eyes shone with a mix of relief and lingering fear. "Come on, let's get you out of this hellhole."

The men exchanged glances, a silent understanding passing among them that Dean's intervention had upset the delicate balance of their underworld dealings. As one of the thugs muttered, "We'll settle this later," Dean took a step forward and extended a hand to the coffee girl.

"Let's go," he said softly, his tone now protective rather than menacing. "You're coming with me."

"Dean… please," she whimpered, her voice barely audible, "I'm scared."

Dean's eyes softened as he helped her to her feet. "I know," he replied, "but you're safe now. I'm not letting anyone hurt you."

A final snarl from the thug with the gun cut through the moment. "This isn't over, Dean," he hissed. "You'll pay for this."

Dean's gaze was unwavering as he responded, "I already have." His words, cold and final, hung in the charged silence.

As the door creaked open behind them, Dean's parting words were delivered in a firm, resolute whisper: "You mess with her, you mess with me. And believe me, I'll be back for every last one of you."

"Dean, thank you," the coffee girl murmured, her voice trembling yet filled with a glimmer of hope.

"Don't thank me yet," Dean replied, his tone softening just enough. "Let's get you out of here first."

And with that, as the echo of his final command faded into the darkness of the corridor, the last words exchanged between rescuer and rescued reverberated like a promise in the night:

"You're safe now. I won't let them hurt you ever again."