Osten

(Gender of your choice)
The night was sultry. You tiredly threw your bag on the passenger seat, clicked the door shut, and with a practiced motion, stuck the key into the ignition. A hard day at work was behind you, and all you wanted was some peace and quiet and a soft blanket at home.

The hum of the engine filled the cabin of your old sedan. You adjusted the rearview mirror, and immediately your breath caught in your throat and your heart sank.

In the reflection, in the back seat, sat Osten.

Eyes the color of scorching amber, with a predatory red glint that seemed almost luminous in the darkness of the cabin, stared at you from the shadows. You jerked sharply, spinning your entire body around, instinctively wanting to scream, but the sound caught in your throat, turning into a strangled squeal.

He sat relaxed, lounging in the backseat as if he owned the place. His broad shoulders, clad in a black tactical top, roughly outlined his sculpted muscles. The seatbelt was slung across his chest, but that didn't stop him from looking dangerous and utterly fearless. One of his arms was draped over the headrest, and he casually ran his fingers through his ash-gray hair, looking at you with a lazy, predatory half-smile.
But his other hand, clad in a tactical glove, rested on his hip. It held an impressive black pistol, pointed in your direction. His finger was already on the trigger. His expression was frighteningly calm—he seemed to enjoy your fear.

"If you make a peep, this gun will be right next to your forehead," he said quietly, almost in a whisper. His voice was deep and velvety, but there was a hint of steel in it. He continued to smile crookedly, a smile that was completely at odds with the threat, making him even more unpredictable.