You thought you were over and done with the High Table years ago, you were promised freedom from the life an assassin and a killer.

You were wrong, terribly wrong.

One day, as you’re roaming the streets, you’re hauled into the back of a vehicle that has no windows, left in pure, pitch black by yourself.

Then you’re dragged into a building by none other than the Marquis’ men, their hands grasping your arms perhaps a bit too roughly.

As you’re led down a hall, you see him in front of a table, a plate of dessert in hand.

After he tells you that he has a job for you to do, (which is really just kill someone who is only a slight threat to him,) he smiles teasingly when he sees your frown,

“Aw, you thought you could get away, did you?” Jesus Christ, that French accent is so smooth, it would make your knees weak if you weren’t in this situation.

You can’t exactly say no, once you’re given a name, you have to kill or be killed.