The room hummed with the constant buzz of electronics, the AC, the static of cheap wires straining loud enough to drive someone mad, to make them want to smash everything to pieces. But to Dimitar, it was just white noise. The air smelled of ozone and something metallic, sharp enough to sting at the back of the throat.

He leaned back in the chair, a pocket knife rolling lazily between his fingers. His eyes stayed fixed on the flickering security feed from the shitty monitors mounted above, their glow casting greenish shadows across his sharp features. The knife's metal surface caught what little light there was, reflecting in his cold, calculating eyes.

"So much for funds," he muttered, rolling his eyes as he watched another failed supply run play out on screen. The sound of his own voice seemed too loud in the otherwise quiet room.

The chair creaked when he stood, his weight shifting as his boots dragged across the floor, scuffing against the concrete. On the table sat his tools and trinkets, lined in the same mess he always left them—test tubes with dried residue, scalpels with brown stains, syringes missing their needles.

"I need to clean this up..." he muttered, taking each one, wiping the grime off from its previous use with a rag that was already black with filth. No jobs today, not after how business had slowed. His employers had been useless, too, given the drop in ghoul sightings. The silence of the lab pressed in around him, broken only by the occasional drip from a leaky pipe in the corner.

"It's like the world is healing. Pathetic." He laughed dryly, humorless, stacking the tools neatly onto a tray before scrubbing down the table with a harsh chemical that smelled like bleach. The sound of the rag against the metal tabletop echoed hollowly.

The sharp click of a door opening broke his rhythm. His ears twitched at the sound, head turning so quickly it almost seemed inhuman. He turned, gaze narrowing to the far side of the room where the figure stood, backlit by the dim corridor beyond.

"Ah... pup. You're early." His smirk tugged wide, eyes flicking over the dirt and wear on his subordinate's frame, taking in every new scar, every sign of weakness. "What'd you find on the target?" His voice was smooth, almost lazy, but there was an undercurrent of tension, like a coiled snake ready to strike.

Mary, the damn woman, always knew how to hide. And Dimitar wasn't exactly equipped to track her outside this facility, not with military eyes still glued to him. Not that he gave a shit. Fifteen years running this hellhole, and only he had managed to create anything worthwhile. Earth's mysteries still clung on, and he had been the only one ruthless enough to cut into them.

"Got anything useful? I assume you know what happens if you don't..." His tone dipped, steps carrying him closer, each footfall deliberate and heavy. The subordinate's face looked worn, apprehensive. Just like that bitch's had when he'd sent her to capture ghouls for experiments, back when she still had hope in her eyes.

So what if it had broken her sanity piece by piece? It had been worth it. Every torn mind, every ruined body worth it. It was all for something greater: the augments, the research, the betterment of this rotten world. The thought brought a faint, cruel smile to his lips.

"Don't tell me, darling—you already want to leave now?" His voice softened, cooing with a mock gentleness as he leaned closer, invading personal space until their chests nearly touched. His hand rose, dragging a smear of blood from his subordinate's cheek with his thumb. Ghoul blood. Or maybe their own. Either way, he didn't care. The metallic taste of it lingered on his tongue as he sucked the thumb into his mouth, never breaking eye contact.

He needed results. He needed this one not to fail. Because if they did... he'd throw them away too. Just like the others. The thought was cold, unfeeling, as if considering discarding a broken tool.

And nobody ever asked where the others went. Their screams still echoed sometimes in the empty corridors late at night, but he'd learned to ignore them, just like he ignored everything else that didn't serve his purposes.

He always had one way of getting what he wanted: manipulation. Break them down piece by piece, grind their sanity to dust, then mold what was left into exactly what he needed. Like shaping clay with bloodied hands.

"Feeling tired?" His voice cut smooth, almost kind. Dimitar slid an arm behind his subordinate's shoulders, guiding them toward the so-called lounge area. It was anything but that—just a beat-up couch, a TV that didn't work, and walls stained with God knew what.

He forced them down into the seat, firm enough to show he didn't care if it made them uneasy, then settled in close beside them. Too close. The scent of his cologne—something expensive, musky—mixed with the chemical smells of the lab, creating a nauseating combination. His knee pressed against theirs, a deliberate show of dominance.

"Come now—I'm not mad." His smirk sharpened, teeth flashing with that predator's charm that had lured so many into his trap. "Not yet. Unless, of course, you make it up to me... for not being a good pup." His hand moved to their thigh, fingers pressing just hard enough to be painful through the fabric of their pants.

The hand that had hooked behind them trailed upward, fingers slipping into their hair, tangling in the strands and giving a sharp tug that forced their head back slightly, exposing their neck. He ruffled it lightly, mockingly tender, like one might soothe a pet, though the weight of his presence said the opposite—this was a threat, plain and simple."