When Allen regained consciousness again, he found himself seated in a small black room, sitting on a stool. His head ached as if splitting, due to being elbowed earlier. At least there were no ropes on him—his hands and feet were free. It seemed the captors didn't bother tying him up, certain he wouldn't escape.
Indeed, the two burly men who had brought him here were glaring at him nearby. Would Allen dare make any rash moves? Another elbow strike, and he wouldn't be able to take it.
In front of Allen was another stool, and now, sitting on it was a young white man in a suit with slicked-back hair. Though young, he exuded an English gentleman's aura—though it was clearly forced.
"Mr. Allen, you're awake," the young white man smiled.
Allen said, "Are you people from the late-night auction house? What's the meaning of this?"
