In the cold, clammy storeroom, only the emergency lights gave off a sickly green glow.
The air was thick with the strange, nauseatingly sweet scent of chemicals, mingling with the rusty tang of fresh blood to form a blasphemous assault on the senses.
Loman Max had been carelessly dumped on the cold floor, like a heap of rotten flesh stripped of its bones.
The wound in his chest was not fatal, but it brought a constant, burning agony and the icy sensation of life draining away, the two feelings taking turns tormenting his nerves.
His obese body trembled ceaselessly with fear and blood loss, his expensive silk night robe fouled beyond recognition by blood, dust, and his own excrement.
He watched the towering black shadow move soundlessly among the shelves holding the family's "wealth," like a discerning visitor in a museum.
Curze's pale fingers passed over row after row of containers bearing different labels.
These were the source of the family's profits, the foundation of its power—the "merchandise" that had shattered countless families and plunged souls into eternal night.
Now, in this shadow's hands, they seemed to have become instruments of torture awaiting use upon an altar.
At last, Curze stopped before a heavy alloy drum.
The drum bore the Max Family's crest and a skull symbol denoting the highest danger level.
Inside was the undiluted base concentrate, the liquid used to formulate all their addictive drugs. Its purity and potency were enough to destroy any unenhanced nervous system in an instant, inducing utter madness and permanent damage.
Curze lifted the heavy metal drum, which stood half a person's height, with one hand. Its base scraped against the floor with an ear-piercing screech.
Carrying it, he walked steadily back to Loman and planted it on the floor with a thud,