Chapter 557

The images of drug lords from news reports flashed through Evelyn's mind—their ruthless methods, their cold-blooded brutality. A shiver ran down her spine.

"Andrew and I lived through hell during that time."

Alexander's gaze drifted toward the distant horizon, his voice hollow. "After we were rescued, I swore I'd bring them down myself. That's why I joined the police academy."

The cartel members had been far more vicious than he ever imagined. Back then, he and Andrew were just kids, no threat to their operations.

Yet, if any of them were in a bad mood, they'd beat them senseless. Only when Alexander and Andrew were on the verge of death would they toss them a sip of water.

Andrew had fought back once. In retaliation, they slashed his cheek with a blade, the wound so deep it exposed raw flesh. The scar stretched across the bridge of his nose, blood pooling beneath him.

They knew exactly how to inflict agony. They poured chili water over Andrew's open wounds, his screams echoing in the dark.

His fiery temper had cost him dearly.

Those two weeks were a waking nightmare for Alexander. Every second, he plotted their escape.

Finally, after ten days, he saw his chance.

When the cartel members were drunk and careless, Alexander used a jagged rock to saw through the ropes binding them. He and Andrew were ready to run.

But Andrew, consumed by rage, refused to leave without revenge. He snatched a dagger from one of the unconscious men and plunged it into the abdomen of the one who had scarred him.

The man's howl of pain woke the others.

They didn't make it far.

The beating that followed was worse than anything before. Alexander lay broken on the ground, every breath agony, as if he'd been crushed beneath a truck. Andrew fared no better.

The cartel lost patience. They demanded to know who had planned the escape.

Neither spoke.

Then came the cruelest game of all.

"Such loyalty," one of them sneered. "Fine. Let's play."

They blindfolded Alexander and Andrew and threw them into a pitch-black room.

Only one of them would leave alive.

Starved, wounded, and delirious, they lost track of time. The darkness stretched endlessly, hunger and pain distorting their senses.

After four days, a dagger clattered onto the floor between them.

"Kill the other, and you walk free."

By then, they were barely clinging to life. The cartel locked the door and left.

It was a test of humanity, a plunge into despair.

They stared at each other. Neither reached for the blade.

Then Alexander, weakened by fever and blood loss, collapsed into unconsciousness.

When he woke, the dagger was in his hand.

The floor was slick with blood.

"Impressive," a voice mocked. "You actually did it."

The words struck like a hammer to his chest.

Alexander recoiled, dropping the knife. No. It wasn't possible.

He would never hurt Andrew.

So why couldn't he remember what happened before he blacked out?