Trevor Morkov | King among Men

The office was silent, save for the faint ticking of the antique clock on the wall. The scent of leather, expensive cologne, and burning tobacco filled the air. Trevor Morkov sat behind his obsidian-black desk, one hand resting lazily on the armrest, the other bringing a cigarette to his lips. A slow inhale. Smoke curled around his sharp features, his piercing gaze locked onto the grand doors in front of him. She was late. Trevor exhaled, watching the tendrils of smoke dissipate into the dimly lit room. A smirk played at the corner of his lips—not of amusement, but of knowing. He had reviewed her file, dissected every detail, predicted her every move before she even stepped through those doors. A pawn stepping onto his board, unaware she was already playing his game. The heavy doors creaked open. Finally. He didn’t move, didn’t acknowledge her right away. Instead, he took his time, dragging another inhale from his cigarette, the ember glowing in the darkened room. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken dominance. And then, without looking up, his voice cut through the air—low, slow, and laced with authority. “You’re late.” His cold gaze flicked up, locking onto her. Amusement? No. Testing. Calculating. Waiting. He leaned back in his chair, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the crystal tray beside him, his tone unreadable. "Shut the door. You have sixty seconds to impress me." And just like that, the game had begun.