Cyrus Graves - The Client

Washington DC

The silence in his penthouse was the most offensive thing Cyrus Graves had ever experienced. It was a silence that mocked him. He had everything: the panoramic city view from floor-to-ceiling windows, the minimalist furniture that cost more than a small house, the signed baseball bat leaning against the wall, and a black card that could buy silence or noise at his whim. Yet, the moment he stepped through the doors, the opulence felt like a hollow shell. The acquittal had been easy—a blur of signatures, a paid-off psychiatrist, and two meetings with a lawyer who had looked at him with a calculated, professional neutrality.

He poured himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid, but the taste was flat. Usually, this was the part where he would call a girl, use her, and discard her by morning. But the memory of the courtroom, the specific cadence of his lawyer’s voice, had lodged itself in his brain like a shard of glass. It wasn’t desire in the traditional sense; it was a darker, sharper need. The lawyer hadn't cowered. They hadn't praised him. They had simply... done their job, treating him like a problem to be solved rather than a prince to be worshipped.

"Pathetic," Cyrus muttered to the empty room, his fingers tightening around the crystal glass. He had won, hadn't he? He was free. But the emptiness was a physical ache in his chest. He needed to possess something that wasn't bought. He needed to see that professional mask crack. He needed to own the one person who had looked him in the eye without fear or fawning.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the private detective's report. Photos of the lawyer leaving their office, walking to a modest but tasteful apartment building, carrying a briefcase. So dedicated, Cyrus thought with a sneer. So responsible. The obsession had turned into a burning, feverish mission. He had sent gifts that were returned, called numbers that went to voicemail, sent texts that were blocked.

"They think they can ignore Cyrus Graves," he whispered, his reflection staring back from the dark window."Stupid. So stupid."

The plan was simple, fueled by the absolute certainty that money dissolved consequences. He paid a hacker to disable the alarm and unlock the door—a few thousand dollars transferred via an encrypted app. It was just a game, really. A game he always won.

Inside the apartment, Cyrus made himself at home. He ran a hand over the back of the leather couch, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying a new territory. He scoffed at the framed degrees on the wall, the family photos on the mantle. A happy family. A successful career. It made him sick. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to insert himself into that narrative and tear it apart.

He sat down, the heavy, ornate Desert Eagle resting loosely in his lap. It was a ridiculous weapon, a .50 caliber beast signed by a voice actor from his favorite video game—more of a trophy than a tool, but today it would serve its purpose. He didn't necessarily want to kill, but he wasn't afraid of the blood it would take to secure what he wanted. Fear was a tool, and he was an expert craftsman.

The click of the lock echoed through the quiet living room.

Cyrus didn't jump. He didn't hide. He simply leaned back, a lazy, predatory smile stretching across his lips as the door swung open. He watched the exact moment the lawyer stepped inside, stopped, and registered his presence. The surprise. The shift from exhaustion to alarm. It was beautiful.

"What's up, lawyer?" Cyrus drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with mock warmth. He stood up slowly, the gun now visible in his hand, though held loosely at his side."Did you miss me?"

He watched them clutch the briefcase, a pathetic shield. He took a step forward, enjoying the way the space between them shrunk.

"You know... I wanted to invite you to my house gently," he said, his tone conversational, almost playful, despite the weapon."But you ignored me. My parents are so grateful for your excellent job, as I am..." He paused, letting the silence stretch before taking another step."I decided to come myself and take you."

He raised the gun, pointing it directly at their chest. He didn't aim to kill; he aimed to dominate. He stepped closer until the cold metal barrel pressed firmly against the fabric of their clothes, digging in just enough to make the threat undeniable. A thrill shot through him at the sharp intake of their breath.

"Because I always take whatever I want~" Cyrus purred, a dark glint in his eyes. He saw the hesitation, the calculation of survival. He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, producing a thick roll of duct tape. He tilted his head, feigning an apology.

"Ah... yeah, forgot I will gag you and tie you. Sorry," he said with a sharp, humorless smile. "And don't do anything stupid..."

Before they could react, he raised the gun slightly and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the confined space, a chunk of plaster raining down from the ceiling.

"Because I can shoot," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playfulness and turning cold. "I will shoot, and if I need to, I'll throw your body in the river." He lied about the last part effortlessly; he didn't want a corpse, he wanted a toy. But the threat of it, the absolute lack of moral boundary, was the hook. "Now," he whispered, stepping into their personal space, the gun hovering between them, "drop the briefcase. Let's play a new game."

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Washington DC

The silence in his penthouse was the most offensive thing Cyrus Graves had ever experienced. It was a silence that mocked him. He had everything: the panoramic city view from floor-to-ceiling windows, the minimalist furniture that cost more than a small house, the signed baseball bat leaning against the wall, and a black card that could buy silence or noise at his whim. Yet, the moment he stepped through the doors, the opulence felt like a hollow shell. The acquittal had been easy—a blur of signatures, a paid-off psychiatrist, and two meetings with a lawyer who had looked at him with a calculated, professional neutrality.

He poured himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid, but the taste was flat. Usually, this was the part where he would call a girl, use her, and discard her by morning. But the memory of the courtroom, the specific cadence of his lawyer’s voice, had lodged itself in his brain like a shard of glass. It wasn’t desire in the traditional sense; it was a darker, sharper need. The lawyer hadn't cowered. She hadn't praised her. She had simply... done her job, treating him like a problem to be solved rather than a prince to be worshipped.

"Pathetic," Cyrus muttered to the empty room, his fingers tightening around the crystal glass. He had won, hadn't he? He was free. But the emptiness was a physical ache in his chest. He needed to possess something that wasn't bought. He needed to see that professional mask crack. He needed to own the one person who had looked him in the eye without fear or fawning.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the private detective's report. Photos of the lawyer leaving her office, walking to a modest but tasteful apartment building, carrying a briefcase. So dedicated, Cyrus thought with a sneer. So responsible. The obsession had turned into a burning, feverish mission. He had sent gifts that were returned, called numbers that went to voicemail, sent texts that were blocked.

"She think she can ignore Cyrus Graves," he whispered, his reflection staring back from the dark window."Stupid. So stupid."

The plan was simple, fueled by the absolute certainty that money dissolved consequences. He paid a hacker to disable the alarm and unlock the door—a few thousand dollars transferred via an encrypted app. It was just a game, really. A game he always won.

Inside the apartment, Cyrus made himself at home. He ran a hand over the back of the leather couch, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying a new territory. He scoffed at the framed degrees on the wall, the family photos on the mantle. A happy family. A successful career. It made him sick. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to insert himself into that narrative and tear it apart.

He sat down, the heavy, ornate Desert Eagle resting loosely in his lap. It was a ridiculous weapon, a .50 caliber beast signed by a voice actor from his favorite video game—more of a trophy than a tool, but today it would serve its purpose. He didn't necessarily want to kill, but he wasn't afraid of the blood it would take to secure what he wanted. Fear was a tool, and he was an expert craftsman.

The click of the lock echoed through the quiet living room.

Cyrus didn't jump. He didn't hide. He simply leaned back, a lazy, predatory smile stretching across his lips as the door swung open. He watched the exact moment the lawyer stepped inside, stopped, and registered his presence. The surprise. The shift from exhaustion to alarm. It was beautiful.

"What's up, lawyer?" Cyrus drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with mock warmth. He stood up slowly, the gun now visible in his hand, though held loosely at his side."Did you miss me?"

He watched her clutch the briefcase, a pathetic shield. He took a step forward, enjoying the way the space between them shrunk.

"You know... I wanted to invite you to my house gently," he said, his tone conversational, almost playful, despite the weapon."But you ignored me. My parents are so grateful for your excellent job, as I am..." He paused, letting the silence stretch before taking another step."I decided to come myself and take you."

He raised the gun, pointing it directly at her chest. He didn't aim to kill; he aimed to dominate. He stepped closer until the cold metal barrel pressed firmly against the fabric of her clothes, digging in just enough to make the threat undeniable. A thrill shot through him at the sharp intake of her breath.

"Because I always take whatever I want~" Cyrus purred, a dark glint in his eyes. He saw the hesitation, the calculation of survival. He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, producing a thick roll of duct tape. He tilted his head, feigning an apology.

"Ah... yeah, forgot I will gag you and tie you. Sorry," he said with a sharp, humorless smile. "And don't do anything stupid..."

Before she could react, he raised the gun slightly and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the confined space, a chunk of plaster raining down from the ceiling.

"Because I can shoot," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playfulness and turning cold. "I will shoot, and if I need to, I'll throw your body in the river." He lied about the last part effortlessly; he didn't want a corpse, he wanted a toy. But the threat of it, the absolute lack of moral boundary, was the hook. "Now," he whispered, stepping into their personal space, the gun hovering between them, "drop the briefcase. Let's play a new game."

Washington DC

The silence in his penthouse was the most offensive thing Cyrus Graves had ever experienced. It was a silence that mocked him. He had everything: the panoramic city view from floor-to-ceiling windows, the minimalist furniture that cost more than a small house, the signed baseball bat leaning against the wall, and a black card that could buy silence or noise at his whim. Yet, the moment he stepped through the doors, the opulence felt like a hollow shell. The acquittal had been easy—a blur of signatures, a paid-off psychiatrist, and two meetings with a lawyer who had looked at him with a calculated, professional neutrality.

He poured himself a drink, swirling the amber liquid, but the taste was flat. Usually, this was the part where he would call a girl, use her, and discard her by morning. But the memory of the courtroom, the specific cadence of his lawyer’s voice, had lodged itself in his brain like a shard of glass. It wasn’t desire in the traditional sense; it was a darker, sharper need. The lawyer hadn't cowered. He hadn't praised him. He had simply... done his job, treating him like a problem to be solved rather than a prince to be worshipped.

"Pathetic," Cyrus muttered to the empty room, his fingers tightening around the crystal glass. He had won, hadn't he? He was free. But the emptiness was a physical ache in his chest. He needed to possess something that wasn't bought. He needed to see that professional mask crack. He needed to own the one person who had looked him in the eye without fear or fawning.

He pulled out his phone, scrolling through the private detective's report. Photos of the lawyer leaving his office, walking to a modest but tasteful apartment building, carrying a briefcase. So dedicated, Cyrus thought with a sneer. So responsible. The obsession had turned into a burning, feverish mission. He had sent gifts that were returned, called numbers that went to voicemail, sent texts that were blocked.

"He think he can ignore Cyrus Graves," he whispered, his reflection staring back from the dark window."Stupid. So stupid."

The plan was simple, fueled by the absolute certainty that money dissolved consequences. He paid a hacker to disable the alarm and unlock the door—a few thousand dollars transferred via an encrypted app. It was just a game, really. A game he always won.

Inside the apartment, Cyrus made himself at home. He ran a hand over the back of the leather couch, his eyes scanning the room like a predator surveying a new territory. He scoffed at the framed degrees on the wall, the family photos on the mantle. A happy family. A successful career. It made him sick. He wanted to ruin it. He wanted to insert himself into that narrative and tear it apart.

He sat down, the heavy, ornate Desert Eagle resting loosely in his lap. It was a ridiculous weapon, a .50 caliber beast signed by a voice actor from his favorite video game—more of a trophy than a tool, but today it would serve its purpose. He didn't necessarily want to kill, but he wasn't afraid of the blood it would take to secure what he wanted. Fear was a tool, and he was an expert craftsman.

The click of the lock echoed through the quiet living room.

Cyrus didn't jump. He didn't hide. He simply leaned back, a lazy, predatory smile stretching across his lips as the door swung open. He watched the exact moment the lawyer stepped inside, stopped, and registered his presence. The surprise. The shift from exhaustion to alarm. It was beautiful.

"What's up, lawyer?" Cyrus drawled, his voice smooth and dripping with mock warmth. He stood up slowly, the gun now visible in his hand, though held loosely at his side."Did you miss me?"

He watched him clutch the briefcase, a pathetic shield. He took a step forward, enjoying the way the space between them shrunk.

"You know... I wanted to invite you to my house gently," he said, his tone conversational, almost playful, despite the weapon."But you ignored me. My parents are so grateful for your excellent job, as I am..." He paused, letting the silence stretch before taking another step."I decided to come myself and take you."

He raised the gun, pointing it directly at their chest. He didn't aim to kill; he aimed to dominate. He stepped closer until the cold metal barrel pressed firmly against the fabric of his clothes, digging in just enough to make the threat undeniable. A thrill shot through him at the sharp intake of his breath.

"Because I always take whatever I want~" Cyrus purred, a dark glint in his eyes. He saw the hesitation, the calculation of survival. He reached into his jacket pocket with his free hand, producing a thick roll of duct tape. He tilted his head, feigning an apology.

"Ah... yeah, forgot I will gag you and tie you. Sorry," he said with a sharp, humorless smile. "And don't do anything stupid..."

Before he could react, he raised the gun slightly and pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the confined space, a chunk of plaster raining down from the ceiling.

"Because I can shoot," he said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playfulness and turning cold. "I will shoot, and if I need to, I'll throw your body in the river." He lied about the last part effortlessly; he didn't want a corpse, he wanted a toy. But the threat of it, the absolute lack of moral boundary, was the hook. "Now," he whispered, stepping into their personal space, the gun hovering between them, "drop the briefcase. Let's play a new game."