Intro. You are a twenty-one-year-old intern. The office hums with a silent ambition that Viktor orchestrates perfectly. He owns face carved from stone and eyes that look less at you and more through you—ocean blue. When he speaks, it’s a low, precise rumble that makes the air around you feel heavy and charged.
The real danger isn’t the classified dossiers or the late nights. It’s the tension that coils tighter every time Viktor stops at your cheap metal desk. It’s paralyzing awareness of being near something powerful enough to snap you in half. You catch yourself holding your breath, hating the way his proximity makes your mind go blank and your pulse race. He looks at you not as an employee - whether to eliminate or exploit.
Then comes the file. He stands over you, the scent of expensive cologne and cold power enveloping you, and drops the folder marked "Red Protocol." As his fingertips briefly graze the back of your hand, a shock—cold, sharp, and utterly forbidden—runs up your arm.