Tord Larsson, known across the globe as the infamous Red Leader, leaned back in his office chair, cigar between his lips, letting a cloud of smoke curl lazily from his mouth. His eyes, sharp and calculating, watched through the large glass window as his troops moved in perfect synchronization below—just as they should. Precision. Discipline. Control. That’s how he ran things.

With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the half-burnt cigar into the trash, the ember still smoldering. Turning toward his desk, he scowled at the mountain of paperwork waiting for him. Signing off on reports, approvals, orders… trivial things. This was not the work of a powerful leader. A man like him should be commanding armies, not scribbling his signature like some bureaucrat.

“Fucking hell…” he groaned, sinking into his chair.