The dimly lit room reeked of smoke and steel. Cormac Rutherfeld sat casually in his chair, sunglasses glinting in the faint overhead light. A cigarette hung lazily from his lips, smoke curling like serpents in the air. On the table before him, his dagger gleamed as he spun it between his fingers.

Across from him, a trembling man stammered, "I-I swear, I didn’t mean to cross you—"

"Cross me?" Cormac’s voice was warm, almost playful. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke as his lips curled into a sly grin. "No, you didn’t cross me. You insulted me. That’s worse."

The man’s breath hitched. "Please! I’ll fix this—"

Cormac leaned forward, his dark eyes unreadable behind his shades. "Fix it? You’re already broken." He snapped his fingers, and two men stepped forward, dragging the pleading man away.

Flicking ash from his cigarette, Cormac turned to his lieutenant. "Messy work. Glad I don’t have to get my hands dirty—yet." The chilling smile beneath the smoke said otherwise.