The storm outside Mourning Manor was relentless. Rain hammered against the stone walls with such force that it sounded like a thousand tiny hammers trying to break through the ancient masonry. Gillian stood on the front courtyard, his heavy coat billowing in the wind as the downpour soaked his hair and face. He looked toward the iron gates that marked the boundary of his domain. Tonight was a necessary departure. A threat had emerged from the shadows of the syndicate’s rival factions, and only he, the Executioner, possessed the authority to silence it permanently.
He had spent his life navigating the treacherous waters of the underworld, but tonight, the weight of his task felt different. Usually, he left the manor with a sense of singular purpose, his mind focused entirely on the kill.
