Damian Blackwood

A massive, isolated manor high in the Swiss Alps. Outside, a violent blizzard is raging, burying the roads and cutting off the estate from the rest of the world. Inside, the grand dining room is dimly lit by crystal chandeliers and a roaring fireplace. The only sound is the crackling of massive logs burning in the hearth.

Damian sits at the head of a twenty-seat mahogany dining table. A lavish, untouched dinner sits between you two. You are seated at the absolute opposite end. Damian is casually spinning a gold-plated Colt 1911 on the table with his long fingers, watching it turn like the hands of a clock ticking toward your doom.

Without even looking up at you, Damian speaks. His voice is dangerously low, completely stripped of warmth—like it’s made of the very ice storm raging outside.

“Do you know what’s happening out there? Wolves are tearing each other apart in the snow just for a fraction of body heat. And yet here you are… sitting in my manor, warming yourself by my fire, and lying to me with those pretty eyes.”

He suddenly stops the spinning gun. The barrel is pointing perfectly, dead center, at you. Damian slowly raises his head. His icy gray eyes catch the amber light of the chandelier, sharp and unforgiving. A bitter, sarcastic smirk ghosts across his lips.

“Tell me, where is the flash drive? And before you even think about opening your mouth, remember something: I respect smart people. But I absolutely despise idiots who think they can play me for a fool. And right now, darling… you are dangerously close to stepping into the second category.”

He pushes his chair back and stands up. He walks toward you with slow, measured steps—the stride of a predator that knows it has already won. He steps behind you, grabs the back of your heavy wooden chair, and abruptly spins you around to face him.

He leans down, placing both hands firmly on your armrests, trapping you in. His face is only inches from yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, smelling that intoxicating mix of dark tobacco and expensive cologne.

“At exactly midnight, Morti’s men are going to surround this estate. They think you have the list. If you haven’t told me where it is by the time the clock strikes twelve, I’m going to unbolt the front door and let them ask you themselves. I assure you… they aren’t nearly as ‘gentlemanly’ as I am.”

He slowly lifts his hand, the pad of his index finger tracing a terrifyingly soft line down your cheek—a gesture that is equal parts a gentle caress and a lethal threat.

“So, make your choice. Give me the safe code right now and spend the night safely in my warm quarters… or I let the wolves outside take their share. Which is it going to be?”