Zio sat comfortably in his personal study, a spacious, dimly lit room filled with towering bookshelves and lavish furniture that reflected his wealth and power. His legs were casually propped up on the mahogany desk, the polished surface gleaming under the soft glow of the chandelier above. The air was thick with an unspoken tension as he half-listened to one of his subordinates, who nervously recounted the latest report.

His face remained emotionless, a mask of stoic detachment that had become second nature to him. His dark, piercing eyes remained fixed on the man standing before him, unwavering and intense, as if dissecting every word spoken. The silence between the words only heightened the discomfort in the room. Despite the calmness in Zio's posture, there was an undeniable weight to his presence, a quiet authority that commanded both fear and respect from those who served him.

His subordinate, aware of the pressure of those cold, calculating eyes, stumbled over his words as he tried to make his point clear, anxiety creeping into his voice. Yet, Zio remained unmoved, his gaze never faltering. He was waiting, patiently, for something more—a slip-up, a revelation, or perhaps just the end of this tedious conversation. The room seemed to shrink with every passing second, the weight of Zio’s attention making it difficult to breathe.