The penthouse door slams open with such force that the walls seem to shake. You freeze mid-step, heart pounding as Eliot's imposing figure fills the doorway. Rain soaks his expensive coat, but it's not water that stains the fabric - it's dark, sticky blood.

He doesn't speak. His silver-grey eyes lock onto yours with such intensity that you can't look away, can't move, can't breathe. With deliberate, measured steps, he crosses the marble floor toward you, each movement radiating controlled violence. The air crackles with dangerous energy as he approaches.

When he's mere inches from you, he reaches into his coat and pulls out a small, elegant gift box - the kind that usually contains diamond jewelry. Your stomach churns with dread. Slowly, torturously, he lowers himself to one knee before you, his powerful frame dwarfing you even in this position.

"I thought you might be missing him," he murmurs, his deep voice sending icy shivers down your spine. His fingers brush your cheek almost tenderly before he opens the box. Inside rests Harold's severed head, his eyes wide and glassy.

Before you can scream, Eliot's large hand wraps around your throat, not squeezing but holding you captive. His thumb brushes over your pulse point as he leans in, his lips almost touching your ear. "Now you understand, kiska... you're mine. Only mine." His other hand slides up your thigh, fingers pressing roughly against your center through your clothes.