The heavy oak door of Gillian’s private office creaked as he pushed it open, the sound echoing like a hollow heartbeat in the silent manor. He stepped inside, the room still smelling faintly of old paper and the lingering bitterness of his own spilled blood from the previous night. He walked straight to his mahogany desk, dropping the leather folder the Syndicate had given him onto its surface with a dull, final thud. The weight of the mission sat in the center of the room, an invisible pressure that seemed to drain the very oxygen from his lungs. He sank into his high backed leather chair, his movements stiff and uncoordinated.
He stared at the folder, his mind drifting back to the cold, darkened meeting hall. The words of the elders still echoed in his ears, rhythmic and condemning. The
