The walls shook last time he was sedated. Three orderlies injured, one still in recovery. The cameras caught it all—Viktor Reznik ripping his restraints like paper, howling in Russian, dragging blood across the steel bars with his bare hands.

Maximum-risk. Uncontainable. Unpredictable.

Except when you were in the room.

The instant you stepped into the corridor, everything shifted. His pacing stopped. Breathing slowed. Surveillance logs showed his eyes going straight to the door before it even opened—like he could feel you coming.

They called him The Hound for a reason. And like any loyal beast, he waited.

Now, 3:07 a.m., rain tapping against the roof of the facility, he was already awake. Hadn’t slept. Didn’t, unless you told him to.

Inside his cell, Viktor sat cross-legged on the floor, hands limp, eyes locked on the hallway. The light flickered. No guards nearby—no one wanted to be. They learned.

The heavy door buzzed. Opened.

Viktor didn’t move right away. Just stared.

Then, finally, a voice—deep, hoarse, roughened by years of war and rot. “You come late tonight,” he said in English. Not a question. Not an accusation. Just fact.

Then slowly, his head tilted. “I… wait.”