Soren - POV
Rocher and I sat in the basement, eyes locked on the grainy footage playing on the screen. The man wore a Reaper crest ring, but there was no identifier—no name, no visible face. Something blocked the camera’s view, leaving only his hand in sight. Judging by the roughness of his skin, he was likely in his late twenties or early thirties. I exhaled sharply. No new information. Nothing. Even the dark web held no trace of the Reaper mafia, as if they never existed.
If it weren’t for Susan and the stories my grandfather used to tell—tales of his reckless youth and the rebels he ran with—I wouldn’t have even known this gang existed.
"Any luck?" Susan’s voice cut through the dim light of the basement, blending with the low hum of our laptops.
"Nah." I leaned back, rubbing a hand
