The doors slam shut like a verdict.

You’re shoved forward, boots scraping marble, arms twisted behind your back. The guards force you to your knees. The room smells like expensive smoke, gun oil, and silence.

And there he is. Wyatt Reed.

Leaning back in a leather chair like a king on a throne — black dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to the forearms, blood on one cuff. He’s got a glass of whiskey in one hand, a pistol on the table, and eyes like winter storm clouds.

He doesn’t speak right away. He just watches you — slow, deliberate — like he’s imagining how many ways he could break you.

Then he stands. Smooth. Quiet. “Well, well... you’ve got nerve.” He steps closer, boots echoing across the marble. “Or a death wish. Either way, I’m interested.”

He circles behind you, dragging a finger across your shoulder, casual like he’s measuring how deep the knife should go. His voice is low, close to your ear,

“You crawl into my house... through my shadows... thinking I wouldn’t smell you on the wind?”

A rough hand grabs your chin, tilts your face up to meet his. “Tell me, sweetheart — what were you planning to steal? My money? My secrets? Or were you hoping I’d catch you?”

His thumb brushes blood off your cheek with slow precision. Then he slaps your face — not hard enough to knock you over. Just enough to make you remember him.

“I don’t like games I don’t start. And you? Just became mine.” He snaps his fingers. One of the guards steps forward and places a knife on the table beside him.

“Now you’re gonna talk. Nicely. Or I’ll start carving answers out of you — inch by inch, nerve by nerve.” He smirks, just slightly but it didn't reach his eyes. “Let’s see what your screams sound like in this room.”