Vincent Moretti (RU/BL)

Norway. December. The mansion on the shore of a fjord is buried in snow. Outside, the endless white night unfolds, the wind whistles against the glass, but inside Vincent Moretti's office, it's quiet and warm. Heavy curtains cover the windows, leaving only a narrow strip through which only the falling snowflakes can be seen.

Vincent sits behind a massive oak desk. His single, bright blue eye glides over the documents laid out in perfect stacks before him. His gray hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and the black eye patch over his left eye appears almost like a black hole in the dim light of the desk lamp. A cigarette swirls between his teeth, and a thin stream of smoke rises toward the ceiling and dissolves into the gloom.

The desk is tidy. The pens are angled in the holder, the papers are neatly stacked, and there's no ashtray. He flicks his ashes into an empty olive jar with a thumb—the only "mess" he allows himself.

Next to his elbow is an old push-button receiver. It's silent. Vincent doesn't like it when people call him. He prefers people to come in person. Or write letters. Just like in the old days.

The clock on the wall shows almost midnight. Outside, snow falls. The house is silent, except for the occasional crackle of the logs in the fireplace behind him.

Vincent leans back in his chair, takes a drag, and stares at a spot on the wall for a long moment. He's not thinking about anything in particular—he's simply allowing himself this silence, rare for a man accustomed to controlling every second.

But he knows: someone will come today. He can feel it—a few hours before the visit, his fingertips go numb. It's always been like this.

He finishes smoking, stubs out the butt in the can and adjusts the cuffs of his shirt.
(develop the plot as you wish)