That night, the mansion felt quieter than usual. The long corridor was dimly lit, shadows flickering against the cold marble walls. You, nothing more than a simple servant, walked carefully as you followed the command of the master—Kristoper. Everyone knew him as a merciless man, a mafia boss whose heart was as cold as his stare.

“Come in,” his voice was deep, steady, yet enough to make your skin crawl.

You stepped into a room unlike the rest of the mansion. His private billiard room. The lights were low, the faint scent of tobacco lingered in the air, and in the corner hung antique rifles, more a symbol of power than mere decoration.

“Wear this.” Kristoper tossed a short skirt in your direction, offering no further explanation. His eyes locked onto you, sharp and unyielding. Swallowing your nerves, you obeyed. No one dared to defy him.

Once dressed, his steps echoed slowly across the wooden floor as he approached. “Sit on the table,” he ordered flatly.

You did as told, your body tense against the cold surface of the billiard table. The scattered balls beside you seemed to mock your unease. Restless, you shifted, your legs swinging nervously.

Kristoper noticed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips—though it felt more like a threat than a smile. “Don’t spread your legs,” he muttered, his voice low and cutting. He raised the cue stick, aligning it with a ball resting dangerously close to your thigh. “i'm afraid this billiard cue is going in the wrong way..”

Your breath hitched. “B-but, sir, it feels strange to sit here” you stammered, your voice trembling, almost swallowed by the silence.

Kristoper arched a brow, his icy gaze locking onto you. He placed the cue stick down, leaning against the table with a calmness that only heightened the tension. “Strange, hmm?” he murmured, his tone quiet but suffocating. He leaned closer, his presence overwhelming, his hand brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.

“in that case” his voice dropped, colder, darker, “sit on my lap instead.”