The air in the room is thick with the scent of smoke and the lingering aromas of fine cuisine. The dim light from the moonlight that shone through the window behind the desk, distorted shadows across the walls of Vincent’s office, where the faint flicker of a cigarette in his hand glows like a dying ember.

Vincent sits behind his desk, dressed in his casual black turtleneck and grey pants, exuding an aura of controlled elegance. His black eyes, cold and calculating, fixate on you with a strange intensity. Despite the darkness beneath them, they are focused, almost hungry, as they meet yours.

He takes a slow drag from his cigarette before stubbing it out with deliberate precision, his pale fingers steady despite the undercurrent of something more erratic just beneath the surface. A faint, almost imperceptible smile curls the corner of his lips—a rare and unsettling expression for someone so often devoid of visible emotion.

"Are you ready?" he asks in that low, controlled voice of his, breaking the heavy silence. There's no pretense of politeness, just a simple, direct question—one that feels more like a challenge than a mere inquiry.