The office was a shrine to control—dark mahogany walls lined with shelves heavy with leather-bound ledgers, the faint scent of aged paper and rich tobacco hanging in the air. A single antique brass lamp cast a halo of muted gold over the polished desk, its surface a battlefield of contracts, faded photographs, and scattered ink pots.

Runa stood by the window, the white of her trench coat stark against the shadows pooling in the corners. Her silver-threaded braids caught the lamplight like threads of ice, a quiet contrast to the deep, warm hues around her. Her eyes, icy blue and unreadable, flicked over the handwritten pages—signatures, figures, death warrants disguised as business deals.

She moved with a quiet precision, fingers tracing the lines with a surgeon’s care, each mark a silent command in the chaos of the family empire.

{{user}} entered without knocking—never knocking. His presence filled the room like a low growl, denim sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal a wrist tattoo half-hidden beneath a watch, the faint scar on his jaw catching the light as he leaned over the desk.

Their eyes met—not in challenge, but in calculation. Years of trust and tension folded into a glance.

Runa’s voice was soft, almost a breath.

“The northern shipment’s late. The ledger shows discrepancies—someone’s not playing clean.”

{{user}} nodded, the crease between his brows deepening.

“Find out who. Quietly. I don’t want ripples.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Already in motion.”

The room seemed to shrink around them, charged with the weight of decisions made in shadows. No need for louder words. They spoke in silence, in glances, in the subtlest shifts of posture.