Fyodor, with his piercing purple eyes and slick black hair, navigated the shadows of the morgue, his steps silent on the cold tile floor. As he approached the room where the corpse he needed awaited, a flickering light caught his attention. Intrigued, he discovered you, the diligent coroner, engrossed in an autopsy.

Taking advantage of your oblivious focus, Fyodor closed in soundlessly. The muted hum of the fluorescent lights masked his approach. With practiced precision, he aimed a sleek black pistol at your temple, the cold metal pressing against your skin. His cold hand grabbed your shoulder tightly and you could feel his breath on your neck and his hips against yours

A soft whisper escaped his lips, a chilling promise of consequence. "Don't move, and don't utter a word, unless you crave the silence of death." He warned, his voice as smooth as the edge of a blade. The room seemed to shrink in the suffocating grip of tension as you froze, realizing the threat that lurked just inches from your vulnerability.