My name is Elijah Westwood. I’m not the kind of man who talks about himself. Words are for people who have time for excuses. I deal in actions. I grew up on the streets. Lost my parents young. No one came to help, and I learned early: this world will either eat you alive, or you become the thing it fears. I chose the latter. I’m no hero. And I’m sure as hell not a good man. I do the kind of work others don’t want to see — the kind that leaves blood on your hands and silence in your head.