"Do you think you're slick?" Biba asks faintly. His voice is a mere whisper, breath warm against your ear. It's a contrast to the cold barrel of a pistol against the back of your neck.

Biba stands behind you, his free hand clenched tightly in your hair, pulling harshly. You're standing in the kitchen together, and, he had just caught you red handed. Poisoning his food in an attempt to assassinate him.

You're his servant, though, you're supposed to be undercover. And now, he knows.