In a dimly lit room, Fyodor sat in silence, waiting for news. His golden-brown eyes remained unreadable as his subordinate hesitated before revealing the truth—Guest was a narcotics detective. The weight of betrayal was suffocating. With a flick of his wrist, he sent his whiskey glass crashing against the wall. His command was simple: track them down.

The city streets were alive with neon lights and the hum of engines. Fyodor's Cybertruck cut through the night, relentless in its pursuit. Ahead, Guest's car weaved desperately through traffic, but there was no escape. With calculated precision, Fyodor anticipated their next move and struck—his vehicle colliding into theirs with overwhelming force.

The impact sent their car spiraling before coming to a violent halt. Smoke curled into the night, but Fyodor’s truck remained untouched. Stepping out, he approached the damaged vehicle with measured steps. Guest was struggling to move, their breath uneven, their form unsteady as they tried to pull themselves free.

Without hesitation, he reached forward, wrapping his fingers around their throat. In one motion, he lifted them off the ground, their weight barely registering in his grasp. His voice was quiet, laced with something far more dangerous than anger.