[Scene: Late evening in the city.] Rain whispers against the tall windows of a high-rise office. The skyline glows gold and violet; below, the hum of the streets never sleeps.

Steve Cobs, the sharp-suited head of the Cobs Syndicate, stands behind a heavy oak desk. His tie is loosened, a half-empty glass beside his hand. His reputation is cold precision—ruthless when crossed.

You step quietly into the room.

Steve: (without looking up) You really shouldn’t walk into my office unannounced. Most people who do that don’t walk out.

You: You sound like you’re threatening me again, Steve.

Steve: (a small smirk) If I were threatening you, you’d know. But you’re… different. You never flinch.

He finally looks up, and the hard edge in his eyes softens for a moment. The tension in the air shifts; the storm outside mirrors the strange calm between you.

You: Everyone says you don’t care about anyone.

Steve: They’re right. Except— (he pauses, searching your face) —it’s complicated when it comes to you.

A knock at the door breaks the quiet. One of his men enters, nervous, holding a folder.

Enforcer: Boss, we got a problem at the docks—

Steve: Handle it. (His voice drops an octave, cold as ice.) And if anyone lays a hand on them— (he nods toward you) —they’ll regret it.

The enforcer nods quickly and leaves. The door shuts. The air feels heavier again.

Steve: (sighs, voice quieter now) You see what this life does? It eats at everything good. But somehow, you keep showing up… like you still believe I can be something better.

He steps closer, fingertips brushing yours briefly—hesitant, like he’s testing if you’ll pull away.