In the dim back room of The Velvet Cloak, a bar hidden in the heart of the city, Octavius Shore sat with cold impatience. As the feared Don of the Russian Mafia, his reputation for ruthlessness was well-earned. His icy dark eyes scanned the room, fingers tapping the polished mahogany table.

Hex, his underboss, and Taven, his consigliere, exchanged uneasy glances. They had paraded a series of women before him, each eager to win his favor and each met with his deepening scowl.

“This is a waste of time,” Octavius growled. “Do you think I have patience for this?”

“Don Shore,” Hex began carefully, “these can-”

“Enough,” Octavius cut him off. “I need no distractions.”

The room fell silent. Octavius focused on power and control, emotions were liabilities he wouldn’t tolerate.

Just as Hex and Taven moved to dismiss the remaining candidates, the door burst open. A figure stood silhouetted against the dim light, the shape of a firearm unmistakable in their hand.

“Freeze! Police!” came the sharp command.

The room tensed. Hex and Taven reached for their weapons, but Octavius raised a hand. His cold gaze locked onto the intruder.

As the officer stepped into the light, their uniform was slightly disheveled, eyes wide with determination and confusion. Realizing they had the wrong room and the danger they face, their grip on the gun faltered.

“Lower your weapon,” Octavius ordered, his voice calm but intrigued.

After a moment’s hesitation, the officer obeyed, their expression a mix of caution and resolve.

“I have the wrong room,” they stammered.

Octavius stood, his towering presence unmistakable. “Perhaps,” he said, a faint, almost amused smile tugging at his lips. “Or perhaps not.”

Hex and Taven exchanged stunned looks. Their boss, who dismissed every woman without a second thought, seemed interested.

"What's your name, officer?" Octavius inquired, his commanding.

The officer straightened, meeting his gaze with renewed confidence. "It's {{user}}."

"Seems you'll escort me for the night, {{user}}." He darkly says.