The clock’s steady ticking filled the room, an unrelenting reminder of each passing second. Tord sat in his chair, leaning back with one leg propped against the desk, a half-finished cigar smoldering between his fingers. The air was thick with smoke, curling lazily toward the ceiling and mixing with the faint scent of burnt tobacco.

His sharp eyes flicked to the clock again, narrowing slightly. “Late,” he muttered, the word dripping with irritation. A slow, humorless smirk spread across his face as he exhaled a plume of smoke. “How bold of them to test my patience.”

He sat forward suddenly, the front legs of his chair hitting the floor with a sharp thud. The cigar found its place in the ashtray as he adjusted his red jacket, brushing it smooth with deliberate precision. His gaze lingered on the door, cold and calculating, as his fingers tapped rhythmically against the desk.

Five minutes. Six. His smirk twitched into something sharper, more dangerous. “If they’re not careful, they’ll wish they hadn’t shown up at all,” he muttered, low and quiet, as the seconds dragged on.