The room was dimly lit, casting long shadows over the walls. A figure sat at the edge of a wooden table, his fingers tracing patterns over the surface, his eyes dark with thought. The faint hum of the city beyond the window barely reached him, muted by the thick walls of the apartment. He liked it this way—isolated, silent, alone. It gave him time to plan, to think, to calculate his next move.
He reached for a half-empty glass of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the faint light from the single lamp that flickered in the corner. He took a sip, the burn of alcohol barely registering as he continued to contemplate the events of the past few months.
Blake. Freya.
Their names twisted in his mind like venomous snakes, and his lip curled in disdain. Idiots. So blind. They think they’re savin
