Strip. Now!

The early hours of the morning were typically silent, but today, a soft drizzle accompanied the heavy clouds that still blanketed the sky. The mansion that stood at the heart of the sprawling estate was a fortress, with guards stationed at every entrance, their cold gazes alert for any disturbance. Inside the vast underground levels, the clinking of metal against the concrete floor echoed.

Sherry's eyes fluttered open as the noise roused her. She sat up slowly, her body aching from the night spent on a hard, cold cot. She rubbed her eyes and took in her surroundings—the dim, damp room that had been her prison for what felt like weeks. The steel door of her cell clanked open with a low groan, and Sherry felt a small surge of relief. The prospect of stepping outside, of breathing air that wasn’t stifled by the smell of fear and sweat, was a small consolation in her otherwise grim situation.

As she rose to her feet, she saw other prisoners, all of them women, being marched out of their cells. She noted their hollow eyes, their expressions devoid of hope or life. They walked like they were dead inside.

"Where are we going?" Sherry asked quietly to the woman who had been locked in with her. The woman had shared little since Sherry had arrived, but now, in the faint morning light, she looked at Sherry with something close to pity.

"You’ll see," was all she said, her voice flat.

Sherry didn’t push her for more answers. She felt like she was still in a nightmare, caught in this world of darkness, luxury, and violence. She followed the others, her bare feet moving silently on the stone floor as they were herded into the hallway. The weight of their situation was palpable; Sherry could feel it hanging over them, a thick, oppressive atmosphere she couldn't shake.

"You’ve come on a day of reckoning, Sherry," her cellmate whispered. "Whatever you do, stay out of Lyon's radar. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Ever."

Sherry's stomach twisted. She didn’t need to ask who Lyon was; his name had been spoken in fearful whispers among the prisoners, and the fear in their eyes whenever they talked about him was enough to understand that he was not just any mafia lord—he was the second greatest mafia’s king. A man of unimaginable power, control, and cruelty.

The women were halted abruptly, and sherry's heart pounded in her chest when one of the guards barked out an order.

“Strip. Now.”

Her mind reeled. Sherry's pulse raced as her eyes widened in disbelief. She looked around, her breath catching in her throat as she saw the other women begin to shed their clothes, their faces expressionless as they dropped their garments to the floor. She couldn’t move, every fiber of her being screaming in defiance. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t.

The guard, a muscular man with a vicious snarl, turned to her, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. He noticed immediately that she hadn’t moved. His hand tightened around the baton he held.

“I said, strip!” His voice was like a whip, each word slicing through the air.

Sherry stood rooted to the spot, her jaw clenched. She couldn’t. Her dignity, what little she had left, wouldn’t allow her to do it. The defiance radiating off her drew the attention of everyone in the corridor. Eyes that had once been dead turned towards her, watching with morbid curiosity.

Her cellmate’s voice was a frantic whisper, “SHERRY, please. Just do it. Don’t make this worse.”

But Sherry didn’t move.

The guard, growing impatient, advanced on her. His heavy boots thudded against the floor as he loomed over her, his dark, beady eyes filled with malice. “Do you think you’re special? Too good to follow orders? Strip, or I’ll do it for you,” he threatened, raising his baton as if to strike.

Just as he lifted it above his head, a voice, smooth and dangerous, cut through the tension.

“Enough.”

The guard froze, turning on his heel as if he had been burned. Sherry's stomach churned as she saw the man they all feared most step into the hallway. Lyon.

He moved with a predator’s grace, his expensive suit fitting him like a second skin, his presence dominating the room without effort. His cold red eyes landed on her, scanning her from head to toe with an expression that chilled her to the bone. The scar that ran down the side of his lip twitched slightly, a faint reminder of the violence he was capable of.

With a slight movement of his hand, he signaled the guard to back off. The guard immediately stepped away from Sherry, his head lowered in submission.

Lyon's lips curled into a half-smile, but there was nothing warm or kind in it. It was the smile of a man who enjoyed seeing others squirm under his gaze.

“You’re new,” he said, his voice low, almost a purr. “I can always tell the ones who still think they have a choice.” He took a step closer to her, his eyes never leaving hers. “But let me make this clear, missy. In my world, you do as you’re told. Or you suffer the consequences.”

Sherry's mouth went dry. She knew what those consequences were. She’d seen the bruises, the broken bodies that came back from the rooms deep within the mansion, rooms where men like Lyon taught their lessons with fists, blades, and worse.

But she couldn’t—wouldn’t—give him the satisfaction of seeing her break. She met his gaze head-on, her chin lifting slightly.

Lyo's smile widened as if her defiance amused him. “Take her to my study,” he ordered the guards. “I think we need a more private conversation.”

Sherry's heart dropped as two of the guards grabbed her roughly, dragging her down the hallway. She tried to struggle, but their grip was iron, and soon she found herself in front of a heavy wooden door that opened into a dimly lit room.

The study was lavish, dark wood and leather filling the space, but it reeked of power. Sherry was thrown into the room, the door shutting with a click behind her. She stumbled but managed to regain her footing just in time to see Lyon enter, his movements slow and deliberate.

He walked over to a large desk and sat down in the high-backed chair, his eyes never leaving her.

“You know,” he began, leaning back casually, “there are two types of people in this world. Those who obey…” His gaze darkened, “And those who need to be taught how to obey.”

Sherry's skin crawled as he stood up and approached her, his towering presence making her feel small. When his hand reached out, she acted on pure instinct, grabbing the nearest object—a crystal paperweight—and swung it at his head.

The blow connected, but Lyon barely flinched. His eyes flared with something darker, more dangerous. Amusement.

“You’ve got a spirit,” he said with a low chuckle. “Good. I like my missy to have a bit of fire.”

Before she could react, he grabbed her by the throat, pushing her back against the wall. His grip was firm, cutting off her air supply as he leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear.

“But fire will only get you so far, missy. In the end, everyone burns.”

Sherry gasped for air, her hands clawing at his arm, but he didn’t let go. He just smiled down at her, like a predator playing with his prey.

“Now, let’s try this again.” His voice was a deadly whisper. “Strip.”