An old wooden door creaked as T-Back shoved it open, revealing the same dingy backroom Viktor remembered all too well.
The place hadn't improved—still reeking of stale smoke and hopelessness. A battered sofa was placed in the center, its threadbare cushions threatening collapse. On the other side of the room, an old TV sat perched on a worn out wooden stand, its cracked plastic casing faintly reflecting the flickering orange overhead light.
Viktor followed reluctantly, jaw clenched, still irritated by the pounding wake-up call. His boots **thudded** against the scuffed linoleum as he stepped inside. His bloodshot eyes darted around, half-expecting some drunken brawl or unruly gang member to explain why he'd been dragged here.
"Alright," he growled, hands resting on his belt. "What the fuck's so—"
His words died in his throat as his gaze locked onto the flickering TV screen.
