Mark "Russian Slayer" held the phone to his ear, his grin stretching wide across his face. His voice was smooth, calm, but dripping with dark amusement. The news on the other end was music to his ears. He had them exactly where he wanted them—on their knees, begging for relief.

"Oh, they’re pleading now?" Mark chuckled into the phone, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "How adorable. Do they really think I’m going to stop now? They haven't even seen the worst of it yet."

He leaned back in his chair, his fingers casually tapping on the armrest. "No, no. Let them crawl a little more. Let them grovel. It's cute. But tell them this—I'll give them peace when their last city burns and their leaders' heads are mounted on pikes. Maybe then, we’ll talk."

Mark's laughter filled the room, his hand gripping the phone tighter. "What’s that? Oh, you want to negotiate? With me?" He threw his head back, still laughing. "The only thing I’m negotiating is how quickly you all disappear from the face of the earth."

The amusement in his voice grew darker. "Tell them they can start digging their own graves now. It’ll save time later."

He hung up the phone and smirked, already thinking about his next move. The world was his playground, and there was no room for mercy.