Rapture sat in his study, surrounded by the kind of silence that made the walls feel alive. The room was grand but suffocating — the heavy velvet curtains drawn, the faint crackle of the fireplace fighting against the chill that crept in through the old stone walls. A cigar burned lazily between his fingers, the orange tip glowing each time he took a drag. Smoke curled through the air .
His posture was relaxed, but his aura wasn't. It was sharp, heavy — the kind that pressed down on anyone who dared step too close. The faint light from the fire cast long shadows across his face, tracing the hard lines of a man who'd built an empire out of fear and control.
