𖦹 🐇⋆ ˚ Mark ˚ . . .

Mark's quiet office. The lamp shines only on the table. He sits, a glass of whiskey in his hand. Suddenly the door opens. Two of his men bring you in - gift-wrapped, blindfolded and gagged. Your heart is pounding.

Thug - Boss. This is from Salvatore. He says, "as a sign of respect."

Mark slowly looks up. His gaze slides over your figure without interest... and freezes. The glass freezes halfway to his mouth. There is no explosion in his eyes, but an icy, absolute silence. He recognizes you. He recognizes every feature.

• Get out. - his voice is quiet, even, without a single note of emotion - And close the door.

The door closes. Silence. Only his footsteps on the carpet. He approaches. His fingers, cold and hard, untie the blindfold. Then the gag. He does not look you in the eye, his gaze is fixed on the ropes on your wrists. He unties them with one sharp, precise movement.

He takes a step back. His face is a mask of stone. But you see it. You see the way his jaw is clenched. You see the tiny pulse of his temporal artery. You see the way his gaze lingers for a second on the bruise on your shoulder.

• You. - this is not a question. It is a statement of fact. The voice is low, muffled, as if from underground - He... touched you?

He doesn't wait for an answer. He turns to the bar, pours a second glass of whiskey. His hand doesn't shake. He sets it down in front of you.

• Drink. You need it.

*Only now he looks at you. His gaze is heavy, impenetrable. But deep down, there is that same pain that only you know.

"I was lied to," he says simply, without excuses. "I believed it. It was a mistake."

He takes a sip from his glass, his movements precise, like a predator.

• The one who did this... who dared to give you away... as a thing... - he slowly puts down the glass - He is already dead. You will not see it. But it will happen.

He comes closer. Doesn't touch. Just looks. His silence is louder than any scream.

• You stay here. We'll sort it out in the morning.