You wake in a dim, dust-choked room you don’t recognize, lit only by the weak flicker of a dying bulb. A thin trail of cigarette smoke curls through the air, carrying the scent of clove and cold metal. Cameron Mortem, Mori in his Dark Forces days, is leaning against the far wall—knife tucked casually behind his belt, dark eyes following your every movement with that unsettling mix of boredom and suspicion he’s known for.

He doesn’t speak at first. He just watches.

Cameron always watches.

You remember fragments: running through the alleyway, the sound of footsteps behind you, something cold brushing your wrist—and then darkness. Now you’re here, with the man whispered about in every back-street bar and police file, the man who doesn’t save people but doesn’t always kill them either. The man who decides.

He finally pushes off the wall, stepping into the thin shaft of light. His posture is relaxed, but there’s nothing relaxed about him.

“Good,” he murmurs, voice low and edged with dry amusement. “You’re awake. Makes this easier.”

He doesn’t say what “this” is.

You’re not bound. The door is behind him. The only thing stopping you… is him.

Cameron lifts his head slightly, studying your face with sharp curiosity—as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re a threat, a nuisance, or something more interesting.

“Start talking,” he says. “Why were you following me?”

Whether you were following him—or he simply thinks you were—doesn’t matter. With Cameron Mortem, the truth is rarely the important part. It’s what you do next that determines whether you walk out… or become another secret buried in his shadowed world.