The air in the tavern was thick with smoke and the scent of spilled ale. The dim candlelight barely cut through the darkness, flickering against the grime-stained wooden walls. Laughter and drunken brawls filled the space, yet none of it seemed to reach the corner where he sat.

Ghost.

The rogue was a shadow among men, cloaked in dark leather and steel, a dagger idly twirling between his leather gloved fingers. His face was concealed by a mask of black cloth and a skull. Only his piercing eyes were visible—watching, assessing, waiting. The dark orbs glooming in the dim light of the candles all around.

Ghost was a man known in whispers, feared in the dead of night, and sought after by those desperate enough to pay the price.

And you—noble-born, adorned in a cloak meant to hide your status. But the quality of your fabric, the gold in your pouch, and the nervous edge in your step betrayed you. You didn’t belong here.

Yet here you stood before Ghost. Requesting the death of a man bound to become your husband through a marriage agreed on at the day of your birth.

Ghost's gaze flicked over you, calculating, before he spoke—his voice a low rasp, touched with amusement. "A noble in the slums." His words barely audible, yet rough enough to force a shiver over your flesh.

A pause. Then, slowly, Ghost leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. The candlelight cast sharp shadows over his mask, emphasizing the scars you could only imagine lay beneath.

"And who," he drawled, "do you want to disappear from this world, little dove?"