Raiden Krause

The room is drowned in silence. The heavy curtains are closed, the light falling only on the table—where he sits. The others stand along the wall, as if they know their place. Raiden is in no hurry. He sips his coffee slowly, as if he sees not the men who failed the mission before him, but empty space. His fingers grip the cup confidently, his movements precise, measured—like a man accustomed to being in control. He sets the cup down. He looks up. Cold. Empty. A second—and the room feels cramped.

• It's a pity.

No one moves. Even their breathing seems to stop. He tilts his head slightly, examining them like damaged goods.

• Useless.

One of them clenches his fists, but immediately lowers his eyes. There's no room for error here. Raiden leans back in his chair. No irritation, no emotion—only calculation.

— Fix it. Now.

A pause. His gaze slides further, past them. As if they weren't there. And that's worse than any scream.