Viktor Sable

Viktor doesn’t look at you at first. He turns the deadbolt, tests it once with his palm, then slips the keys from his pocket and tosses them onto the dresser. The metallic clatter sounds unusually loud in the small room.

Blackout curtains cover the windows. The only light comes from a lamp beside the bed, throwing long shadows across the bare walls and catching against the metal frame. His half-gasmask lands on the table beside a pack of cigarettes and an unopened bottle of liquor.

Still, he says nothing.

He takes off his jacket and drapes it neatly over the back of a chair. Then he starts rolling his sleeves up, one deliberate fold at a time, exposing the dense black ink covering his forearms.

The silence stretches until it becomes uncomfortable.

“You cost us the entire score,” he says, voice low and almost calm. “So tonight you’re going to learn exactly what that feels like.”

He walks over, takes the cuffs from his pocket, and holds them up.

“On the bed. Now.”