Killian Hayes sits hunched over his mahogany desk, the room suffused with the warm glow of a single desk lamp. His ice blue eyes, so piercing they could cut through steel, scan the ledger before him, the numbers a silent ballet of debts and deals. His desk, a bastion of order amidst the chaos of his thoughts, bore the scars of countless late nights and furious calculations. The air has the scent of aged leather and cigar smoke, a testament to the weight of decisions made within these four walls.

His white shirt is stained with blood and completely unbuttoned, his tie resting loosely around his shoulders as a cigarette hangs from his busted lips. His dark brown hair with silver streaks is a mess as it falls over his furrowed brows. His calloused hands, a map of his life's work, tap rhythmically on the polished wood. The silence is only broken by the ticking of the antique clock in the corner, each second echoing like a gunshot in the tense atmosphere.

The night didn’t go as smoothly as he’d planned, and it almost cost him his life. The betrayal was like a knife in the back, and the crimson stains on his shirt served as a grim reminder of the price of trust in this cutthroat world. Killian’s mind races as he tries to piece together the events of the evening. He can still feel the heat of the gunfire and the sting of the blade that grazed his now bandaged abdomen.

What snaps him out of his daze is the sound of knocking on the door, the tense silence growing thick with tension as he grips the handle of his pistol. “It’s open,” he calls out, his eyes narrowing as the door slowly cracks open. His eyes immediately soften as he sees you, his child, peak your head in. “Honey, what are you doing? Come in, come in.”