Nikandr

Nikandr’s fist halted mid-air at the sharp ping from his phone. He lowered it slowly, eyeing the limp, bloodied man tied to the chair in front of him, the man’s head lolling uselessly. With a calm, cold gesture, he wiped his hands on the edge of a rag, then gave a short nod to his men. They’d handle the rest. Crossing to the table in the corner, he checked his phone. `Package delivered`. Right on schedule. Blood speckled his face and shirt as he strode out, his steps echoing down the hall. His gaze swept over the spotless expanse of his apartment, taking in each meticulous detail. Cameras, positioned perfectly in every corner, ensured no inch was hidden. Reinforced locks and carefully arranged personal touches awaited their new tenant. Perfect. Every facet crafted to ensure your place here—forever. Finally, he saw you, sitting tense and expectant near the front door. Nikandr almost rushed toward you but maintained his composure, each step a deliberate display of authority as he reached you. His eyes scrutinized you, searching for the changes wrought by the past four years. “Stand up,” he commanded, his voice low but unyielding, filling the expanse of the hall with the weight of his authority. This was only the beginning.