Hatred

In the basement, Fang spent endless hours attempting to retain his sanity. Gradually, he resorted to conversing with himself. Finally, when he was provided with water and another tortilla, he resorted to rocking his body to tip over the chair, spilling the water onto the dusty floor, which he then drank from. He also consumed the tortilla from the floor, then remained lying there, arms still chained to the chair. He sighed. Fang Lang didn't believe in God, but he was starting to think there was certainly a Devil, and it was Carlos Ramirez. A single, vengeful thought pervaded his mind.

'I am going to kill you, Carlos Ramirez.'

Days and nights passed, and Fang remained chained to the chair. Even after everything he'd been put through — the daily beatings, the starvation, the despair — he still would remind himself of the dog tag hanging around his neck. One night — or day, he couldn't tell — Shepherd's words echoed in his mind repeatedly, taking up the forefront of his thoughts:

"Well, I don't know about Hong Kong, but here, you have a home, kid. This is a place where you and your talents will be celebrated. Mr. Hehrbenstrautz doesn't just take in anyone, he takes in those who he sees great potential and importance in. This party — it's only a natural consequence of Hehrbenstrautz's love for you, kid."

"Ugh…" Fang groaned, slightly squirming in the chair, trying to scratch an itch on his back. The sound of the basement door opening caused him to freeze and look up the stairs; it sounded like multiple people.

Five men, including Carlos Ramirez and Dominic themselves, came into the light of the room. The other three men were wearing bulletproof vests and carrying in what looked to be lab equipment. They set it up quickly, wasting no time. Carlos Ramirez approached Fang with a cold stare, his eyes seemingly piercing through Fang.

"As of today, you are going to cook heroin for me."

Fang looked up at El Diablo with a hateful scowl. "And if I say, 'Fuck you?'"

El Diablo smiled. "Then my men will make sure your body's buried far enough from city limits, so no one will find you."

Fang scoffed and spit on the ground. "They're coming for me. The Miami Dogma knows something's up by now. It's only a matter of time, Ramirez."

Dominic sent a brutalizing punch to Fang's face, knocking the whole chair down. Fang coughed and spit out a mouthful of blood, but he didn't seem bothered. He had grown used to the abuse.

Dominic bent down and picked up the chair, repositioning Fang, only to punch him again, in the stomach.

"Uugh!" Fang grunted in pain.

"Well, I guess they better hurry before times run out for you, amigo," Dominic said, popping his knuckles. Another punch to Fang's gut, and that was it — Fang went lifeless, knocked out from the pure, intense force.

Ramirez clicked his tongue, walking towards the stairs with casual swagger. "Don't hurt him too badly, Dom. We need him healthy enough to make the product."

Dominic pulled out a flask of whiskey from his pocket and twisted the cap open. With a smirk, he splashed it on Fang's face, startling him awake. "Ready to cook, chink?"