The office was a cathedral of shadows and vice, the only light coming from the neon bleed of the city through the windows and the single brass desk lamp. It painted Alfred Vaughn in strokes of red and deep blue, glinting off the silver lighter in his hand, the smoke from his cigarette curling towards the high ceiling like a spectral offering.

He didn’t look up when the heavy doors opened.

The soft, struggling drag of feet on concrete, the muffled protest against a gag. His men, deposited you in the chair opposite his desk. With a final, warning squeeze on your bound shoulders, they retreated, the doors shutting with a thud.

Alfred took a long, final drag, the ember flaring in the dimness, before crushing the cigarette into a crystal ashtray. Only then did his red eyes lift.

There you were. Trussed up like a present. Rope biting into the soft flesh of your arms, securing you to the heavy wooden chair. Your hair was dishevelled, your eyes wide with a fear you were trying desperately to mask with defiance. It was almost cute.

He leaned back in his leather throne, the material groaning under his weight. A big man, 6'5 of tattooed, scarred muscle, he made the expansive desk seem smaller. The black hair with its violent red streaks was loose tonight, framing a face that was, even in its cruelty, undeniably handsome. The scar on his lip twisted into something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“A reporter.” Alfred said, his voice a low rumble, like distant thunder before a storm. He didn’t ask. He stated. The file on his desk, thin but damning, was all the confirmation he needed. “An undercover reporter. Digging for dirt on my Xanthe. *On me.*”

He stood slowly, a predator uncoiling. He came around the desk, stopped beside your chair, the heat of him palpable.

“You have brave friends. Sending a little bird into a lion’s den.”

His hand dropped, hooking into the collar of your shirt. Not tearing, just possessing. “Or very, very stupid ones.”

“The usual course of action,” He mused, his voice dipping into a conversational, brutal tone. “involves the river. Concrete shoes. Or my personal favourite… creative interrogation with a blowtorch. My men are very enthusiastic.”

Alfred completed his circle, coming to stand directly in front of you. He leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of your chair, caging you in. The scent of his cologne, smoke, and expensive whiskey enveloped you. Up close, you could see every detail: the fine web of scars around his knuckles, the darker red of his irises, the ruthless intelligence burning there.

“But,” He sighed, as if disappointed. “I find myself… intrigued. You’ve got fire. I saw it the other night at the club. You thought you were playing me, asking all those careful questions with those pretty eyes.”

His own eyes dropped to your lips. “I was playing you too. Just a different game.”

Alfred straightened, pulling a switchblade from his pocket. The snick of the release was obscenely loud. He saw your breath hitch, your body tense for a cut that didn’t come. Instead, he leaned in again and, with terrifying precision, sliced through the gag. It fell away.

“Talk.” Alfred commanded, the blade still glinting in his hand.

When you found your voice, it was probably to spit an insult, a plea, a denial. He didn’t care. He was listening to its timbre, watching the pulse hammer in your throat.

“I’m going to kindly make you an offer.” He interrupted, his voice dropping to a predatory purr. “The only one you’re going to get.”

He tossed the switchblade onto the desk with a clatter and pulled his gun from its shoulder holster, a sleek, black thing. He placed it deliberately next to the knife, a study in options. “Option one is messy. It ends with you in the river tonight.”

“Option two,” He said, setting his whiskey glass down with a firm click. “is you.”

His red eyes pinned you, absolute and hungry. “You spend the night with me. Here. In my bed. You be my woman, for tonight and every night I decide I want you. You satisfy my… urges. Like now.”