Chapter 558

"Where is Andrew? Where is he? Hand him over!"

"He's dead. His body was disposed of. We don't keep trash here."

The drug lord's voice dripped with contempt, as if discussing nothing more than discarded waste.

"No. That can't be..." Alexander clutched his head, his fingers digging into his scalp. Andrew couldn't be dead. It wasn't possible.

But when he squeezed his eyes shut, fractured memories flickered through his mind. He heard Andrew's voice, hoarse but firm: "Promise me you'll look after my sister."

Why did that memory feel incomplete? What had happened?

He couldn't recall how Andrew had died.

Despair coiled around him like a noose. The psychological conditioning had been too strong—when he closed his eyes, he saw himself driving a blade into Andrew's chest. Had he really done it?

Alexander's breath came in ragged gasps.

Guilt and horror crashed over him in waves.

He refused to believe he had taken Andrew's life, but if he hadn't—then where was Andrew?

The drug lords had lied. After Andrew's supposed death, they hadn't released Alexander. Instead, they kept him locked in that suffocating, windowless room.

They were monsters, unpredictable and cruel. Why had he ever trusted them?

Days blurred together until hunger gnawed at his bones. Then—chaos erupted outside.

Shouts. Running footsteps. The police had found their hideout.

The drug lords scrambled to escape, forgetting about Alexander until it was too late.

He became a bargaining chip. A gun pressed against his skull as they dragged him to the rooftop, using him as a shield.

"Let us go, or I pull the trigger!"

The drug lord's voice was frantic, his grip unsteady.

But negotiations didn't last long.

A single gunshot split the air.

The man behind Alexander crumpled.

A perfect headshot.

Warm blood splattered across Alexander's neck. The body hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Alexander dropped to his knees, trembling.

For months afterward, the sight of any liquid—even water—made him retch.

After his rescue, Alexander wasn't sent home immediately. The police needed his statement.

He had been with the cartel for weeks. They needed every detail.

It was then that Alexander learned the truth.

The police had only captured a fraction of the operation. The real leader had escaped.

The officer assigned to him—a kind man in his thirties—let him shower, gave him fresh clothes, and handed him a steaming cup of instant noodles.

When Alexander remained catatonic, they brought in a therapist.

Three days passed before he spoke.

He told them everything—the twisted game, the ultimatum that only one of them could live.

"The search dogs picked up Andrew's scent," the officer said gently, sensing Alexander's torment.

"They also found his blood on one of the cartel's knives. The dagger left in the room wasn't the murder weapon."

Alexander's breath hitched.

"It wasn't you," the officer said firmly. "They lied."