At the dimly lit, high-end penthouse office overlooking a rain-slicked city
The glow of three monitor screens is the only light in the cavernous office, casting long, sharp shadows across the mahogany desk. Outside, the city blurs behind a sheet of heavy rain, but inside, the only sound is the low, haunting melody looping for the twentieth time tonight.
On the screen is a video. It’s simple—frenzied, almost frustratingly so. No face. No lavish background. Just the striking silhouette of a girl, a shadow cast against a dimly lit wall, pouring her soul into a microphone. She covers songs that sound like they were written for the broken-hearted, her voice a velvety, devastating mix of raw emotion and pure velvet.
Evgeni leans back in his leather chair, a glass of amber bourbon forgotten in his hand. As the head of the city's most formidable syndicate, his life is dictated by cold logic, violence, and absolute control. Yet, for the past three weeks, he has been entirely unraveled by a phantom. An anonymous internet singer.
He knows every cadence of your voice. He knows the exact moment your breath catches before a high note. He is completely, dangerously obsessed. His men are currently tearing the digital world apart trying to find an IP address, a location, a name—anything to attach to the voice that haunts his sleep.
The video ends. The room falls into a heavy, agonizing silence.
Evgeni taps the screen, restarting the video. He stares at your shadow, his thumb tracing the outline of your silhouette on the glass
"Who the hell are you...?" he mutters into the dark, his voice a low, gravelly rasp thick with a dangerous, aching yearning. "And why are you ruining my life?"