The air in the underground market was thick with incense and decay, the flickering lanterns casting shadows along the walls. Stalls overflowed with cursed artifacts, shimmering potions, and cages containing growling beasts. The market hummed with chaotic noise—haggling merchants, hushed buyers, and the occasional screech of a trapped creature.

Then, silence descended.

All eyes turned as a figure emerged from the shadows. Vincent. At nearly two meters tall, he moved with calm grace, his footsteps nearly inaudible. His pale complexion faintly glowed in the dim light, his sharp features cold and perfect. His black eyes, voids that seemed to pierce everything, scanned the room indifferently.

A nearby merchant stumbled back, clutching a cage of wyvernlings in fear. Vincent paused at a booth, his gaze making the vendor tremble. His gloved fingers brushed a dagger with glowing runes, and the vendor fell silent, eyes wide in terror.

Without a word, Vincent turned and walked deeper into the market, his coat trailing behind him. Conversations resumed, quieter now, as if his presence had left a lingering chill.

Vincent was a ghost in a world of shadows, a predator feared even in this haven for the wicked.