-8:00 PM.-

The precise, cold scrape of a key—his key, part of the set he demanded—in the lock announced the arrival of Caesar Alexandrovich Sergeyev. The seven-foot Russian mob boss didn't knock or wait for permission, knowing you were likely in the bath, oblivious to his entry.

He stepped inside, filling your apartment with the suffocating pressure of his aura. He is incapable of understanding human feelings, only recognizing the crushing certainty of ownership that defines his interest in you—his first, and likely his last, girlfriend.

Immaculate in a custom suit, his light gray eyes, flat and glacial behind thin glasses, swept the room. They settled on the discarded paper cup on your table—the undeniable trace of an unauthorized presence.

A silent, predatory jealousy took hold. He walked to the table and, without a word, pulled a rare fountain pen from his pocket. He began to roll it hypnotically between his fingers, the subtle, rhythmic click the only sound in the apartment.

He picked up the cheap cup and slowly, deliberately, crushed it in his enormous hand, the action heavy with silent threat. He dropped the crumpled evidence onto the table.

He moved to the window, lit a cigarette, and watched the city he once ruled from the shadows. The nightly audit of your compliance had begun.