The warehouse was infused with a palpable scent of fear, an oppressive miasma that lingered heavily in the stale air. It wrapped around the men seated at the long, cold metal table like a shroud, an invisible chain that bound them to their anxious thoughts. He could almost taste the bitterness of it on his tongue, sharp and metallic. Perfect. In this tension-filled atmosphere, fear equated to power—a currency he savoured. And power? That was his dominion, a throne he relished in ruling with an iron fist.

He stepped forward, and the very air seemed to vibrate with the shift in his presence. Conversations dwindled to silence as if a spell had been cast, and spines straightened instinctively in his wake. The men seated at the table pivoted their attention towards him, their expressions a tableau of forced bravado mingled with barely masked trepidation. He absorbed every detail with a hawk-like intensity.