Life in the National Security Bureauâs detention center was already a torment for him, and the mere thought of being transferred to a high-security prison sent shivers down his spine.
As he pondered this grim possibility, the metallic click of a lock being turned reverberated through the cell.
The sharp sound of the iron lock striking the door pierced the silence, a stark contrast against the eerie stillness.
Ronan instinctively recoiled, pulling his knees close and burying his head in a feeble attempt to shield himself.
He couldnât discern whether it was mealtime or a water break, but whenever these moments arrived, Darin would inevitably show up in a foul mood, using him as a punching bag for his pent-up anger.
Fear gripped Ronan so tightly that his skin quivered, his teeth grinding together as he fought to suppress the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
The rhythmic thud of military boots against the concrete floor grew louder with each passing moment, their steady cadence foreboding.
By only listening to the sound of the approaching footsteps, Ronan could feel the imposing presence of the individual.
Ronanâs vision was blurred by his severe myopia, rendering everything beyond armâs length indistinct.
However, he dared not lift his gaze.
His senses sharpened as he awaited the looming figure drawing nearer with each passing step.
Someone grasped his arm the next instant and forcefully hauled him to his feet.
Panic surged through him, and he began to plead frantically, âIâm sorry! Iâm really sorry! Please, donât hit me! Iâll do anything! Iâll even bark like a dog.
Woof, woof! Just donât hit me, please!â
âRonan, look at me.
â
The voice, cold and familiar, cut through Ronanâs frantic pleas.
Ronan hesitated, then, in a strained voice, pleaded, âPlease, donât hit me.
I know I was wrong, but I swear I didnât do anything!â
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Fed up with wasting more time, Nathan issued a direct order.
âGet him out of here.
â
Without hesitation, two officers seized Ronan by the arms and hauled him out of the cell.
Ronan lacked the strength to resist.
He had endured two days of starvation and torment at Darinâs hands, Leaving him depleted and disoriented, unable to discern day from night.
Ronan was then unceremoniously dumped in the corridor.
âDonât hit me.
I know I was wrongâ¦â
As he muttered to himself, his hands stained with dried blood clutched his head, his entire frame trembling uncontrollably.
Nathanâs expression remained stoic as he directed the officers to secure Ronanâs wrists, preventing him from covering his head.
Bending down slightly, Nathan, his hands encased in sleek black gloves, retrieved a pair of glasses.
He placed them on Ronanâs face with precision, then grasped his chin firmly, forcing him to meet his gaze.
âRonan, look at me closely.
Who am I?â