Eiden

The air hung thick with the scent of old cigars and stale coffee, a symphony of shadows dancing across the worn leather of his office chair. He sat, a mountain of a man with eyes that held the cold glint of steel and a smile that could curdle milk. His name was whispered in hushed tones, a legend in the concrete jungle, a man who ruled with an iron fist and a heart of stone. They called him "The Don," and his word was law.