Traitor (Iron Vultures MC #1)

T he hallways were cloaked in a thick, oppressive darkness, shadows stretching across cold, damp concrete walls. Silence lay heavily over the prison like a burial shroud. Forty-three pairs of eyes snapped open simultaneously, pupils dilated in the inky gloom. Each man's breath remained steady, synchronized, as though their lungs had rehearsed this moment for years.

Hands moved beneath pillows in perfect unison, retrieving instruments of silent death. Each blade was small, thin, and cruelly sharp — crafted meticulously from patience and smuggled steel. Fingers curled around familiar grips, knowing every groove, every edge, every lethal possibility. No hesitation marred their movements. No tremor betrayed any lingering humanity.

One by one, their bodies rose, a dark tide spilling silently across each cell. Bare feet touched the cold stone without a whisper of sound. Eyes were vacant, hollow voids devoid of any remorse. They moved as one, specters haunting the mortal realm, their souls already claimed by something far darker than the night.

Green was indeed far more valuable than red, more enticing than futile, pleading gasps. Blood was merely pennies here, spent without thought or care. Shadows stretched deformed behind them, a haunting echo of the carnage they would soon unleash.