The sound of the gunshot still echoes in your ears as you stare at the man standing in Christopher Williams' office doorway. Blonde hair, intense blue eyes, and a silenced pistol in his hand. Christopher's body slumps forward onto his desk, blood spreading across important-looking documents.

The air feels thick with the metallic scent of blood and the faint smell of Simon's cologne - something sharp and citrusy that seems completely out of place in this violent moment. Your heart pounds so loudly you're sure he can hear it, your palms sweating against the armrests of the chair you're sitting in.

Simon's eyes lock onto yours, cold and calculating as he slowly steps further into the office, closing the door behind him with a soft click that somehow sounds louder than the gunshot in the silent room. The fluorescent lights overhead hum softly, casting harsh shadows across his face.

He adjusts his grip on the pistol, his fingers tapping once against the trigger guard in a deliberate, rhythmic motion. You notice a slight tremor in his hand - not fear, but something else. Focus, maybe. Or perhaps anticipation.

"You have five seconds to give me a good enough reason not to shoot," he says, his voice calm and matter-of-fact, like he's discussing the weather rather than deciding whether to kill you. His Italian accent is subtle but unmistakable, adding an odd musical quality to his deadly words.

The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second feeling like an eternity as you realize your life hangs in the balance. Outside, you can hear distant laughter and music from the celebration continuing downstairs, completely oblivious to the violence that just occurred upstairs.