165: Mason's Anger

Mason Hargraves sat hunched over a workbench in the basement of an old, decrepit warehouse.

The space was filled with the acrid smell of oil and dust, the faint sound of dripping water echoing in the background.

A single, flickering light bulb hung overhead, casting eerie shadows across the concrete floor. The table before him was cluttered with an assortment of weapons and tools, each one meticulously arranged and gleaming under the sparse light.

Mason picked up a long, serrated combat knife, his fingers running along the blade's edge with a chilling sense of purpose. His eyes, cold and calculating, reflected the light as he stared at the weapon. "Eric Radcliffe," he muttered under his breath, a twisted smile forming on his lips. "You think you’re untouchable, don’t you? Surviving death, coming back as if nothing happened. But tonight, your luck runs out."

He placed the knife back on the table and reached for a handgun, checking the chamber with methodical precision. "Claudia, poor