DEL MORINO.
I was having trouble breathing. The dream clung to me like thick oppressive smoke.
Mother's voice, pleading with me to live, sacrificing herself for me, the screams of those who tried to protect us had filled my ears all these years and my mother's face was still etched in my memory.
It's been years ago but since that day I could still feel the anger of having that scar on my left eye.
It hurt me that I had lost the only person who cared for me.
My shaky fingers automatically reached for my face and found the cool leather of the mask I wore, a barrier separating my shame and anger from the outside world.
My memory was etched with the assassin's image—a man with an arrow and a crescent moon tattooed on his neck.
After years of searching packs and questioning mercenar
