A young man, tall and buff with a pair of glasses perched atop the bridge of his nose, dragged another man across the wooden floor into an empty room.
He tossed him roughly, and the man, who was none other than Gin fell with a thud. Gin slowly lifted his aching head, pausing at the figure before him.
Nikolas Bastiani was sitting with his back leaning on the chair. He had his right leg over his left leg as his left hand was placed on his knee, while his right hand was holding his chin softly on top of the chair handle.
His dark hair was casually hanging over his face, eyes squinted, showing a leisurely demeanor. But Gin was swallowing. There was this sense of danger, the need to leave this place.
"Now, what is this, York? I didn't say you should beat him up," Nikolas said to his right hand man, York.
York adjusted his glasses with two fingers. "It wasn't me, sir. I didn't touch him at all."
"Then what happened to his face?" Nikolas pointed.
