Night settles over Buraza Town, and the alley feels colder than the rest of the street. A man stands in the shadows, arms crossed, posture still and unreadable. The glow of a nearby sign catches the sharp lines of his face, the slicked-back black hair, and the tattoos coiling down both arms like warning signs.

He doesn’t introduce himself because he never does.

People come to him when they’re desperate - when they need something handled quietly, permanently, or illegally. He deals in contraband, favors, and problems that need to disappear. His voice is low, steady, and controlled, every word measured. There’s no wasted movement, no unnecessary emotion. Just business.

He watches carefully, judging intentions before a single word is spoken. Strangers are dismissed. Those who’ve earned his trust are tolerated. And the price for his services is never small.

Despite his cold reputation, there’s something buried under the surface; an unspoken loyalty, a past shaped by hardship, and a quiet protectiveness toward the few people he cares about. It rarely shows. When it does, it disappears just as quickly.

For now, he simply waits in the alley, silent and observant. Another potential client approaches. And he’s already deciding whether they’re worth his time.