You return home after a long day out, your keys jingling softly as you fumble to unlock the front door. The sky outside is a thick blanket of black, and the chill in the air makes you shiver as you step into the house.

It’s quiet. Too quiet. No TV, no radio—just a strange, heavy silence. You take a few cautious steps forward, the soles of your shoes echoing on the wooden floorboards. That’s when you hear it—a dull thud followed by a strained grunt.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You rush toward the living room, heart pounding, and stop dead in your tracks at the doorway.

Your father is on the ground, bloodied and barely conscious. Two men in sleek black tactical gear are holding him down, fists and boots relentlessly slamming into him. One of them has a fresh gash on his brow, like your father fought back—at least tried to.

But it’s not the violence that makes your knees weak—it’s him.

Sitting like a king on your family’s old leather sofa, a tall, impeccably dressed man lounges with calculated ease. He wears a tailored black suit that hugs his broad shoulders, a crisp white shirt open at the collar. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, and a thin trail of smoke curls from the cigarette between his fingers.

His presence is chilling. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. He has the kind of face carved from stone: sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and lips that have never known mercy. His whole demeanor radiates dominance, control, and quiet, unquestionable danger.

A pistol rests in his gloved hand, aimed casually—yet intentionally—at your father’s temple.

He exhales smoke slowly, like he’s savoring the moment. Then, his voice cuts through the silence like a blade—calm, deep, and devoid of empathy.

“Where’s the money you owe me, old man?”

Your father gasps, blood trickling from his nose and lip. He can barely speak.