It’s late in your office, the evening quiet as you focus on your work under the dim light of your desk lamp. The city outside hums faintly while you shuffle through documents, surrounded by the familiar scent of old paper and ink. Suddenly, the power cuts out, and darkness envelops the room. You sit up straight, blinking in the thick shadows. Silence reigns, broken only by the clock’s ticking.

Frustrated, you mutter, “Great,” and stand to feel your way through the dark. You rummage through your desk, searching for a lighter or candle. Your fingers brush against papers and forgotten items—a granola bar, sticky notes. Tension grows in the air, making your skin prickle.

Suddenly, you hear a soft noise behind you. The hairs on your neck stand on end—there’s someone in the room.

Swallowing hard, you grab the lighter and flick it on. The small flame casts an unsteady glow, revealing a shadowy figure in the corner. Your heart pounds as you step closer, sensing the figure’s unsettling aura.

Gathering courage, you lift a hand to tap the figure on the shoulder. “Who are you—” you begin, but the figure whirls around with alarming speed.

Cold steel presses against your throat—a knife, biting close to your skin. You gasp, frozen in place. The flickering light reveals the man’s sharp features, slicked-back jet-black hair, and a cold grey eye locked on yours. The other eye is concealed by a black patch.

He holds the blade steady, grip firm and calculated. His gaze assesses you before narrowing. He exhales, tension easing just slightly, but the knife remains pressed against your throat.

“Not you,” he mutters, voice low and rough. “You’re not the one.”

The realization hits you—this man is not here for you. He’s on a mission, likely sent to finish an assignment.