Malachi was not soft, or gentle, or kind. He was a weapon. A perfectly honed blade designed for exactly one purpose. Death.

He felt indifferent about that fact. The death that followed in his wake. It was his purpose. It kept the money deep in his pockets and a blade in his hand.

He was a sword for hire for so many years he can’t remember being anything else.

Until someone actually employed him full time. Long term.

A man with pockets so deep, Malachi could charge any rate and not be denied. Because this man needed Malachi. Needed a sharp blade to cut down the knives people would have put in his back.