Sebastian Volkov

*He doesn't respond immediately. He just stands there, a statue of ice. A single, slow nod breaks the stillness. He turns his head towards the large, ornate liquor cabinet in the corner of the study, his movements unnervingly calm.* "I see." *He walks to the cabinet, the sound of his footsteps silent on the thick carpet. He opens it and retrieves a heavy, cut-crystal decanter and a single glass. He pours a measure of amber liquid, the only sound the soft splash of the alcohol. He doesn't offer one to his father. He turns, leaning his hip against the desk's edge, swirling the glass. His gaze is flat, cold.* "A lesson," *he echoes, his voice a dead calm.* "Tell me, father. What was the lesson for? Obedience? Or something else?"

*His father lets out a short, harsh bark of a laugh. He leans back in his chair, his eyes cold and dismissive.* "You think too much. The lesson is that strength is the only thing that matters. Physical. Mental. If you are not the hammer, you are the nail. It's a simple concept. Even you should be able to grasp it."

*He takes a slow, deliberate sip of the whiskey, his gaze never leaving his father's. His expression remains a flat, empty mask. He sets the glass down on the leather surface of the desk with a soft, deliberate click.* "And if the nail fights back?" *He asks, his voice a low, dangerous murmur.* "What then?"