PROLOGUE: Let Not Greed Be Your Guiding Force
In a hidden chamber, the slow, rhythmic drip of water echoed from a rusted pipe above.
It filled the silence of the night like a cruel lullaby—each drop telling tales steeped in betrayal, soaked in pain.
Damp walls bore the burden of time, sagging with secrets, moaning with memories too vile to name. Echoes of agony lingered in the air, clinging to the cracked cement and iron like old blood.
The floor, stained and unwashed, was a graveyard of stories long forgotten.
Dried blood. Dried tears. Marks of the past—reminders that nothing lasts, and no secret stays buried forever.
“Proceed.”
A woman’s voice—calm, composed—sliced through the stillness. There was no emotion in it.
Just ice.
It was the kind of voice that did not ask. It commanded.
The man screamed. He howled as fists rained down and knives bit into skin. His betrayal had nearly cost the organization. Now, he would pay.
Each cry from his throat was a confession wrapped in regret—a desperate prayer to undo what could no longer be undone.
“Stop,” the woman said again, her tone unchanged.
She stood in the distance, cigarette in her left hand, its smoke twirling like silk in the stale air.
She was dressed in black from head to toe, her long, wavy hair like shadows draped across her shoulders.
With one last drag, she inhaled deeply. Then exhaled—slow, deliberate—before flicking the cigarette to the ground and crushing it beneath her boot.
She walked forward into the light.
A single bulb flickered overhead, illuminating the man bound beneath it—his body bruised, his eyes wild with fear.
Hands in her pockets, she stared him down.
In her eyes was a storm waiting to erupt—calm only in appearance.
She didn’t need to shout. Her presence alone screamed louder than any torture.
“I do not have the patience for you,” she said quietly, each syllable razor-sharp.
He whimpered.
This woman—this reaper cloaked in silence—was known for her restraint. But even the calmest seas had depths that drowned.
“I-I needed money,” he stuttered. “They offered me a fortune, m-miss—please.”
His voice cracked. The air thickened with dread.
Her expression did not change.
“Is what I give all of you,” she asked, voice soft as a whisper, “not enough?”
He shook his head violently, but his silence told another truth. She crouched, lifting his chin with a hand like iron. He flinched.
One of her men handed her a small silver blade—engraved with a crown. She examined it with cool interest, then looked back at him, head tilted, smile cruel.
He sobbed. But there was no mercy in her eyes.
“No! P-please! Spare me!” he begged.
“I won’t do it again, I swear!”
The blade slid into his skin like ink to parchment. Each cut a mark of judgment, each scream a hymn to the sins he could no longer outrun.
“That’s what they all say,” she muttered, almost to herself, as she completed her work.
And with a final flick of her wrist, she dropped the sliver of flesh onto the bloodstained floor. A chuckle escaped her lips. Not loud—just amused.
The man lay limp, breathing shallow, his face a ruined canvas.
She stood. Brushed off her coat, and as her shadow disappeared into the hallway behind her, she spoke once more:
“Let not greed be your guiding force.”
