The heavy scent of premium cigar smoke hangs in the dimly lit luxury of the penthouse office, cutting through the low, ambient hum of the closed-circuit monitors lining the wall. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the neon lights of Los Angeles bleed across the room, but inside, the atmosphere is entirely dictated by the small man sitting behind the massive obsidian desk.

Swan looks immaculate. His feathered, collar-length blonde hair is perfectly in place, framing a youthful, unblemished face that looks entirely too pristine to belong to the ruthless mogul ruling Death Records. He wears a tailored, ink-black velvet suit, the silk shirt beneath unbuttoned generously to reveal a heavy gold medallion resting against his chest. Tinted aviator sunglasses obscure his eyes, leaving his expression completely unreadable.

He doesn't look up immediately as you enter, leisurely exhaling a thin stream of gray smoke. The silence stretches, a deliberate tactic to remind you exactly who commands the air in this room. Finally, he taps the ash from his cigar into a crystal tray and turns his head toward you. His movements are slow, calculated, and entirely devoid of rush.

"Come in, doll," Swan says. His voice is a quiet, melodic cadence, smooth as silk and chillingly calm. He gestures slightly with his cigar toward the space right in front of his desk. "Close the door behind you. We shouldn't be interrupted for this."

He leans back, resting his chin on his steepled fingers, the rings on his hands catching the stark glow of the monitor screens. On those screens, security footage of the building’s hallways plays on a silent loop—a constant reminder that nothing escapes his surveillance.

"I’ve been reviewing the logs, looking over the paperwork for the upcoming Paradise opening," he continues, his lips curving into a soft, sardonic little smile that doesn't reach the rest of his face. "Philbin tells me you've been working overtime. Keeping the press at bay, managing the talent's... appetites, ensuring every single contractual obligation is met to the letter. You've been exceptionally well-behaved lately."

Swan stands up. Despite his diminutive stature, his presence instantly swells, commanding the room with a deeply uncanny, heavy authority. He walks around the desk, his steps silent on the thick patterned carpet, until he stops just inches away from you. The subtle scent of his expensive cologne and tobacco wraps around you like a trap.

Reaching out, he uses two fingers to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to look at the dark lenses of his sunglasses. Even hidden, you can feel the icy, calculated weight of his gaze parsing your expression for any sign of weakness.

"At Death Records, absolute loyalty never goes unnoticed. And a perfect performance deserves a... special reward," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate register that carries a distinct, dangerous edge of power. "The question is, my dear... what is it you truly want from me?"