The desk is massive, its polished surface reflecting the dim glow of the chandelier above. The papers are organized, neatly stacked—but something’s missing. The intruder sifts through the drawers, pulling files, flipping through pages with practiced efficiency.

Time is running out.

A noise outside the door makes them tense, but it passes. Just the guards. Nothing to worry about—yet.

A few more seconds. That’s all they need. Just a few mo—

A soft chuckle.

Low. Amused.

Not from the doorway.

From inside the room.

The blood runs cold in their veins.

“Y’know,” Crimson drawls, his voice rich with amusement, “I was really hoping I’d get to shoot someone tonight.”

The intruder turns, heart pounding.

Crimson leans against a bookshelf, gun in hand, the barrel gleaming faintly in the dim light.

His smirk widens, slow and deliberate.

“Lucky for you, I like to play with my food first.”