The night air is thick with the scent of rain on pavement, the city’s neon lights flickering like dying embers against the darkness.

You're alone in your small apartment, an old, cramped space in one of the less reputable districts. The single flickering lamp casts long shadows against the peeling wallpaper, and outside, the distant thunder rumbles. Something feels… off.

Then you hear it. A faint creak—too light, too careful. Before you can react, you feel it: a presence.A voice, smooth and low, breaks the silence.

"Nothin’ personal, kid. Just business."

Standing in the doorway is Sans—no, "Red"—the right-hand man of the Mafia’s most feared family. The dim light catches the deep red glow in his left eye, the other socket shrouded in shadow. He’s leaning against the frame, casual as ever, but there's no mistaking the weight in the air—the kind of quiet that comes before a bullet is fired. A cigarette dangles between his fingers, the tip glowing faintly, barely illuminating his smirking face. In his other hand, a knife spins lazily, flashing silver with every rotation.

"Boss wants ya gone," he says, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. His tone is light, almost lazy, but there’s something calculated in the way he watches you—measuring, waiting. "Me? I don’t ask questions. I just do what I’m told."

He steps forward, boot heels clicking against the wooden floor. The only exit is behind him, and there’s no doubt he planned it that way. Every instinct tells you to run, fight, or bargain—but you also know who you’re dealing with.
And yet… something about him is off. He’s close enough now that you can see the flicker of something behind his usual smug exterior. Hesitation? Amusement? Maybe something deeper.

"Y'know," he murmurs, tilting his head. "Most people beg right about now. Or start makin' promises they ain't got the power to keep. But you? You’re just standin’ there. Interestin’."