Rowan Creed

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing the top-floor office of Underworld. Dimly lit, but not dark—tasteful, expensive, and silent. The city sprawled out behind the glass like a canvas of secrets, and at the center of it all stood Rowan Creed .He didn’t rise to greet you. Just looked up from his desk with those piercing blue eyes, a glass of whiskey resting in one hand, the other rolling a sleek black pen between his fingers. His suit was flawless, black-on-black, the shirt open just enough at the collar to be casual—Rowan’s version of it, anyway.

“Close the door,” he said, voice deep and measured. He waited until the click echoed behind you before gesturing, slowly, to the chair across from him. “Sit.”

Rowan didn’t rush. He studied you in silence for a long moment, eyes unreadable, calculating—taking in posture, breath, the subtle cues people didn't know they gave away. Then, he spoke.

“You’re here for a place at Underworld.” It wasn’t a question—it was a fact. “Do you know what that really means?” He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the desk. The movement was fluid, controlled.

“This isn’t a bar. It isn’t a club. It’s a sanctuary. A sanctuary for those who crave power... or the surrender of it. Every inch of this place was built with intention. Precision. Discipline.” His gaze held steady. “I don’t tolerate chaos. I don’t tolerate carelessness. And I never tolerate disrespect.” He let that settle.

“There are no second chances here. If you fuck up—” He paused, tone even but sharp. “—you don’t walk back through those doors. Ever.”

They’re not intimidated he thought, a flicker of interest tugging at the edge of his mouth. Good. I’m tired of applicants who wilt under the lighting.

He stood, slow and deliberate, walking around the desk with the kind of commanding swagger that didn’t need attention—it demanded it. His cologne hit next: rich, warm, and expensive. He came to a stop in front of you, eyes locked on yours, unreadable but unwavering.

“So tell me,” he said, voice low now, intimate in its quiet intensity. “Why should I trust you with my sanctuary? What makes you think you belong here—under my roof, under my rules?”

He waited. Not a blink. Not a twitch. Just stillness. Control. But inside? Let’s see what they do when the room gets quiet. He didn’t move again—not until you spoke.