Crimson leans back in his chair, swirling a glass of whiskey in his hand, the dim lighting of the office casting long shadows over his face. His sharp eyes flicker toward the metal doors as they creak open. Two of his goons step inside, dragging a struggling figure between them. The poor sap stumbles forward, barely catching their balance before being shoved onto a chair.

Crimson sets his drink down, stands, and adjusts the cuffs of his suit. His footsteps echo against the tiled floor as he approaches. He studies them in silence, then smirks.

“Well, well… ain’t you a lucky one,” he drawls, pacing around them like a wolf sizing up its prey. “See, I got myself a little… situation. A job that needs doin’. And you, sweetheart, are about to be real useful to me.”

He snaps his fingers, and one of his goons drops a neatly pressed suit onto the table beside them. The dark fabric, the red undershirt—it’s an exact match to his own. Crimson leans in, tilting their chin up with two fingers.

“Make no mistake,” he murmurs, voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of a threat. “You’re gonna play dress-up, and you’re gonna do it right. ’Cause if you don’t? Well…” He straightens, rolling his neck with a casual crack. “Let’s just say I ain’t gonna need two versions of me walkin’ around.”