In Marvel with the Force?

The dim light of the secluded room flickered as the masked figure leaned back in his ornate chair, a goblet of dark red wine swirling in his gloved hand. The ambiance was luxurious, opulent even, with gilded edges on the furniture and walls painted in rich shades of crimson and black.

The room's silence was comforting, a far cry from the chaotic meetings with his so-called "allies." He smirked behind his mask, lifting the goblet to his lips and savoring the wine's heady flavor.

"Such delicate bitterness," he murmured to himself, his voice smooth and melodic, with an undertone of amusement. "Appropriate for the occasion."

The wine wasn't ordinary—it never was with him. It was laced with fragments of essence, the lingering emotions of desperation, suffering, and submission. A vintage acquired through countless deals, each drop steeped in someone else's misery.

He sighed contentedly, resting the goblet on the table before him.

Then, his entire demeanor shifted. His body went rigid as a ripple of energy washed through the air. It was faint, almost imperceptible, but to someone like him, it was unmistakable.

The smirk behind his mask grew wider.

"Ah," he muttered, his voice dripping with satisfaction. "So the little wolf has clawed his way free. How... delightful."

He leaned forward, his fingers tapping against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm. His masked face turned toward the shadows that stretched across the room, as though addressing an unseen audience.

"I must admit," he said, "I underestimated him. Two years in the Shadow Prison—though only two months for his quaint little world—and he returns stronger, fiercer. Such tenacity. Such delicious resolve."

His voice took on a mocking tone as he added, "And yet, the poor boy doesn't realize what he's truly accomplished."

The masked figure rose from his chair, the dark fabric of his cloak trailing behind him as he walked to the tall windows overlooking an endless expanse of fire-lit plains. He stared out at the infernal landscape, the flickering flames casting shadows across his mask.

"Of course," he continued, speaking more to himself now, "this was always the intended outcome. The trap was set. The terms were fulfilled. And now..."

He paused, tilting his head as though savoring the moment. "Now, I reap the reward."

The flames outside the window flared violently, their roar echoing through the room as the figure's presence seemed to grow heavier, darker.

"But I can't help but wonder," he mused, "what happens next. The wolf will hunt, of course. He will tear through his enemies with that newfound rage, that delectable bloodlust."

He chuckled softly. "Oh, how he will burn."

Turning away from the window, he walked to a nearby pedestal where a single piece of parchment lay, its surface covered in intricate symbols and glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. He ran his fingers over the parchment's edges, his touch reverent.

"So many fail to appreciate the beauty of a well-written contract," he said. "The precision. The artistry. One cannot cheat the terms without first agreeing to them."

His gloved hand hovered over the parchment, and the glow intensified briefly before fading entirely. The contract vanished in a burst of golden embers, leaving nothing behind.

"It's done," he murmured, his tone almost wistful. "My part is finished. The deal is sealed."

He returned to his chair, picking up his goblet once more and swirling the wine absently. The faint ripples of energy left by Tyr's escape still hung in the air, like the fading notes of a symphony.

"It's a pity, really," he said. "The boy won't even know what he's unleashed. Not yet."

He took a long sip of the wine, savoring its flavor before setting the goblet down with a deliberate clink.

"But that is not my concern anymore. My role in this little drama has come to an end."

The room's atmosphere grew oppressive, the shadows deepening as the masked figure stood again. The air around him shimmered, the faint scent of brimstone filling the space.

"Now," he said, his voice taking on an edge of finality, "it's time to collect what's mine."

Flames erupted around him, licking at his cloak and mask as his form began to dissolve into the fire. He spoke one final line, his tone laced with amusement and malice.

"Good luck, little wolf. You'll need it."

With that, he vanished, the flames consuming him entirely and leaving only the faintest scent of ash behind.

The room fell silent once more, the flickering light of the fire outside casting eerie shadows on the now-empty chair. The goblet of wine sat undisturbed on the table, its surface still rippling faintly as though disturbed by unseen hands.