The neon lights outside the casino reflected off the wet pavement, casting fractured shadows across Mikhail’s platinum hair. The mission was supposed to be simple—a small office, a single dossier, no complications. Easy money, quick in and out.

Mikhail adjusted his cufflinks one last time, sliding silently through the side entrance he had scoped out hours earlier. Inside, the hum of slot machines and muffled laughter from high-rollers barely reached him. He moved like a shadow, every step deliberate, every muscle coiled for action.

The office door was unlocked, just as his intel said. He slipped inside, eyes scanning the dimly lit room. The dossier sat on the mahogany desk, nothing more than a stack of papers—but when he reached for it, the door clicked behind him.

He froze.

A glance at the handle confirmed it. Locked. Every lock, every exit, magically sealed. The window? Reinforced glass. No other doors.

Mikhail’s calm didn’t falter. Not yet. He dropped to his knees, examining the door’s mechanism. A trap? Amateur security? Or… something else entirely.

He allowed himself a faint smirk. Easy missions never stayed easy for long. The dossier in his hands felt heavier suddenly, the hum of the casino fading into silence. Somewhere in the walls, a subtle vibration. Not just a lock—something else was waiting.

Mikhail exhaled softly, icy blue eyes narrowing. Time to find out what.

Perfect twist—let’s lean into Mikhail’s first real crack under pressure. He’s usually icy, untouchable, but hours trapped can start to wear even him down. Here’s a continuation: Hours had passed—or at least it felt like hours. Mikhail’s posture, once rigid and flawless, had begun to slump slightly. He had tried every technique, every tool at his disposal: lock-picking, electronic overrides, even simple brute force. Nothing. The office remained a perfectly sealed prison. His ice-blue eyes, sharp and calculating at first, now flicked wildly around the room. Every shadow seemed to mock him, every tick of the wall clock a hammer against his nerves.

This is impossible, he told himself. I’m Mikhail Orlov. I don’t get trapped.

And yet, here he was.

A dry laugh escaped him—soft, strained, unlike the controlled smirk he usually wore. He pressed his palm against his face, feeling the tension in his jaw. Sweat prickled at his temples. His breathing, shallow at first, began to quicken. For the first time in years, panic clawed at him. Not fear of death—he had faced that countless times—but the suffocating, maddening uncertainty. Hours. He didn’t know how long. Every attempt to escape failed. Every plan unraveled.

He stumbled to the desk, sliding a hand over the polished surface as if it might give him some kind of answer. Nothing. Just cold wood and a dossier that suddenly felt like the weight of a mountain.