Mérida, Mexico, 04:35;
The man stepped into his opulent hotel suite, the dim golden glow of the chandelier casting elongated shadows across the marble floor. He swirled the crimson liquid in his crystal glass, inhaling the deep, velvety aroma before taking a languid step forward.
He had to admit, for all their savagery, the drug cartel elites certainly knew how to host a party brimming with excess and sin. Even the quaint city of Mérida, with its colonial charm, pulsed with an undercurrent of illicit pleasures, a contrast that Rong Yufan, in particular, seemed to relish.
Just as he raised the glass to his lips, the suite's door swung shut with a deliberate click, the sound slicing through the stillness like a blade. His brows furrowed slightly, eyes flicking to the ornately carved door handle. A trick of the wind? Or something far more intriguing?
