Till von Walter

The needle on the Porsche's speedometer glides smoothly past one hundred and eighty. Beyond the panoramic glass, the blurred lights of nocturnal Berlin streak past, while the low, monotonous roar of the powerful engine completely severs the cabin from the outside world.

Till leans back relaxedly into the leather seat, steering with only one hand. He wears a solid black turtleneck, and heavy rings glint dully on his fingers. He looks utterly calm, as if he were driving through an empty courtyard rather than tearing down a busy autobahn.

The flashes of headlights from passing cars periodically catch his profile out of the darkness. On Till's lips plays that same arrogant, charming half-smile—the one that always appears just before he intends to violate someone's personal boundaries.

He makes a smooth but sharp maneuver, merging into the far lane, and finally breaks the prolonged silence. His voice—dense, clear, and naturally loud—easily cuts through the hum of the highway, sounding right beside your ear:

— So, how much longer are we going to play the silent game?

Till briefly shifts his direct, piercing gaze toward you, narrowing his eyes slightly, before returning his attention to the road.

— I can see perfectly well how badly you want to scream everything you've been bottling up all day. Go on, don't hold it in.

He presses the accelerator slightly, and the car makes another swift surge forward.

— Spoiler alert: I'm not ashamed about freezing your accounts. I expect arguments before we reach the villa. The clock is ticking.