The office is elegant, dark, the scent of leather and smoke hanging in the air. It’s quiet—too quiet. The intruder moves carefully, scanning the shelves, fingers brushing over book spines, searching.

They don’t hear him at first.

Not until it’s too late.

A slow inhale. The unmistakable scent of burning tobacco.

The realization comes seconds before the voice.

“You just made the last mistake of your life.”

They whirl around.

Crimson is standing just a few feet away, framed by the dim glow of the fireplace. He’s holding a glass of whiskey in one hand, the other resting idly against his belt. His gaze is sharp, dark, utterly unimpressed.

His lips curl into something dangerously close to a grin.

“Go on,” he murmurs, taking a slow sip of his drink. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put a bullet between your eyes right now.”