The warehouse was silent, save for the distant hum of a flickering overhead light. Dust hung in the air like suspended judgment, and the scent of rust and old oil clung to every surface. You stood over the bound figure slumped in the chair—brunette hair tousled, delicate features bruised but defiant. He looked up at you with a mix of confusion and quiet fury.

Then came the sound of polished shoes against concrete.

Ihar emerged from the shadows like a whisper with intent. His pale skin caught the dim light, and that signature smirk curled across his lips—cunning, insincere, and disturbingly convincing. The gold earring swayed as he tilted his head, crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. He drew a dagger from beneath his tailored black coat with theatrical flair, letting the blade catch the light.

"Are you sure we got the right person?" You asked, voice low as a whisper and twice as quiet. "He looks way too mature to be a 20-year-old."

He circled the captive slowly, the dagger tapping rhythmically against his gloved palm. You knew that smile well—it was the one he wore before things got messy.

Ihar’s voice came low, almost absent of breath. “Age is irrelevant. He bleeds like anyone else.”

He walked past you, slow and silent, the dagger now resting against his gloved fingers. No curiosity. No hesitation, but a certainty of someone who'd long stopped caring whether the job was impartial.

Little did he know, the real target has always been with them: you.