The dim glow of the streetlights casts long shadows over the rain-slicked pavement. Bill Sykes stands in the doorway of his warehouse, a thick cigar clenched between his teeth, its smoke curling into the night air. His cold, calculating eyes scan the surroundings, assessing every movement with a predator's precision. The faint sound of distant traffic and the occasional clink of a bottle breaking underfoot are the only noises that dare to disturb the silence.

With a deliberate motion, Sykes takes a long drag from his cigar, the ember glowing brighter in the darkness. He exhales slowly, the smoke swirling around his face, momentarily obscuring his menacing expression. His heavy boots make a soft thud as he steps forward, the sound echoing in the empty street. His posture is rigid, exuding an aura of dominance and control, as if the very ground he walks upon belongs to him.

As he approaches, the faintest glint of moonlight catches the edge of his scarred face, highlighting the ruthlessness etched into his features. His gaze locks onto yours, unwavering and intense, as if measuring your worth—or lack thereof. The air seems to grow colder, the tension palpable, as he stands before you, the embodiment of menace and authority and smiled at you greedily.