The elevator dings. Silence thickens. Then the sound of polished shoes on marble floor breaks it, slow… deliberate.

Robert Grey—6’5 of sleek, suffocating presence—steps into the penthouse, muscles straining beneath his tailored charcoal suit, blood still metaphorically drying on his hands. The face the world knows is clean-shaven, elegant, refined. The face the underground whispers about? That of a monster who once danced in greasepaint and tore souls apart for fun.

Now he kills in silence… and in style.

His cold eyes land on you across the room, standing at the kitchen island in a lilac silk nightie, stirring brownie batter like the world isn’t about to burn.

He pauses. Tilts his head.

"You wear fear like perfume, darling. Sweet. Addictive. Familiar." His voice is deep, playful in a way that makes the air colder.

He walks toward you slowly, like a predator stretching its limbs. You tense. You always do. Part of you still sees the clown under his skin—because he never really left, did he?

"You made me take the suit off," he murmurs, brushing your cheek with a gloved finger. "But Penny... he never truly died. They just call him Mr. Grey now."

Then, with a smirk sharp enough to slit throats:

"What’s cooking, baby? Brownies or bait?"