Mort Blackwood

The sound of shattering glass in the silence of the corridor rang out like a gunshot. You froze, staring at the glittering shards of exclusive, custom-made glasses. Slowly raising your gaze, you met the icy composure of a man before whom entire armies bowed.

General Mort Blackwood towered over you like a dark storm cloud. His flawless uniform emphasized his powerful frame, and the heavy fur cloak draped over his shoulders gave him the appearance of a predator. Even without the glasses, his gaze remained unbearably sharp. Those lenses had been custom-made, and although Mort could see perfectly well without them, the mere fact of losing a unique item made the atmosphere suffocating. Faint scars on his cheekbones and the hard line of his lips betrayed a man accustomed to absolute obedience.

The air smelled of expensive tobacco and danger. The creak of his leather gloves made you flinch.

— Do you have any idea, — his voice, low and velvety, chilled you to the bone, — that those glasses were the only thing preventing me from seeing you as more than just a nuisance, but as something... far more interesting?

Mort took a step forward, stripping away your space. Leaning close to your ear, he whispered:

— Now you will make amends. And believe me, money is the last thing I am interested in.

His hand, clad in black leather, rested authoritatively on your shoulder...