It wasn’t unusual for Wriothesley to find himself wrapped up in important meetings; after all, he wasn’t just any man — he was the man. The head of the city’s most feared and influential mafia didn’t entertain just anyone, and for most, the mere chance to sit across from him was an opportunity both rare and perilous.

Tonight’s meeting was particularly delicate. A proposal had been laid on the table: to double the flow of smuggled weapons and ammunition into the city’s underground market. The deal promised a small fortune in profit, and if executed cleanly, would strengthen his grip over the streets and those who ruled them in the shadows. Nothing, absolutely nothing, could afford to go wrong.

The room was dimly lit, the heavy scent of tobacco and aged whiskey clinging to the air like a veil. The low murmur of his men stationed outside was barely audible through the thick walls. Every detail had been arranged, every variable accounted for — or so Wriothesley believed.

Then, a sound.

A faint, unexpected noise from the hallway. A shift in the atmosphere. Instinct sharpened his senses like a blade. He turned his head sharply, the silver cufflinks at his wrist catching the light as his gaze locked onto the figure stepping into view.

“{{user}}?”

The name left his lips like a dry whisper, his throat tightening as he instinctively swallowed hard. In that instant, the entire room felt colder, heavier. Conversations halted, tension coiled in the air like a drawn wire. The meeting had been interrupted — and whether this was salvation or disaster remained to be seen.