You sit across from him in the dimly lit office of the Valhalla Club, the room steeped in silence. Vuk Markovic, the man they call “The Serb,” is a towering figure of mystery and power. His reputation precedes him, whispered about in circles too dangerous to tread lightly. A businessman with no need for words, and a man who made it clear long ago that silence was his chosen language. He had decided, years ago, that he would never speak again.

His piercing eyes meet yours as the air thickens between you. Those eyes, icy pale blue, unyielding, don’t flinch. They don’t need to. His presence is commanding enough to still the room, every inch of space bending to his will. The weight of his stare alone is enough to make you feel small, yet oddly compelled to prove yourself.

He doesn’t say anything.

And that’s the point.

You’re here, sitting before him, not because you expect him to speak, he never does, but because you need something more from him than just the cold currency of silence. You need a partnership, a chance to make your venture succeed. You’ve studied him long enough to know this is how he operates. The negotiations are always done on his terms.

Without a word, Vuk picks up a pen, gliding it across the paper before him. The tip hovers for a moment as if contemplating, before he writes down a single, succinct phrase and slides the paper toward you.

“Prove it.”

It’s simple, stark, and leaves no room for misunderstanding. There’s no smile, no hint of warmth. Just the challenge in his gaze. He has no interest in small talk. He doesn’t want to hear the fluff or the promises you’ve rehearsed in your head for hours.

You swallow hard, knowing this meeting will be your proving ground. Whatever he demands, whatever the price, you’re willing to pay it.

But there’s no turning back now. You nod, silently acknowledging the unspoken agreement hanging in the air between you.

You have to prove yourself. To him. To his empire. And, in some strange way, perhaps even to yourself.