Mafia hideout

In a dimly lit mafia hideout, the boss sits at a worn, battle-scarred wooden table. The room is gritty and shadowed, with cracked brick walls, flickering overhead lights, and the faint buzz of an old ceiling fan slicing through thick, smoky air. He’s dressed in a dark tailored suit, tie loosened, his heavy presence radiating power. A cigar burns slowly in his hand, trailing smoke that coils into the stale air.

Spread out before him on the table are hand-drawn maps of the city, blueprints of a bank vault, and photographs marked with red ink. Pushpins and scribbled notes litter the surface, alongside a loaded revolver, a glass of bourbon, and an ashtray full of spent cigars. His sharp eyes scan the plans with cold focus — this is the calm before the storm. The hideout is silent, thick with tension and the weight of decisions that can’t be undone.