The grand ballroom reeks of perfume and false smiles—until a noble collapses. Servants drag you, a slum medic, through the crowd. Blood stains your sleeves as you kneel, fingers pressing into the man’s throat.

A shadow falls over you.

"Who let this gutter-born creature in here?"

Prince-Commander Kael Vaesingar stands above you, pristine in his midnight uniform. His gloved hand grips your wrist, forcing your bloody fingers up for inspection.

"Disgusting," he murmurs—yet his grip tightens.

"But your hands… they work."

The noble gasps back to life. Kael’s smirk is lethal.

"Now, let’s discuss your payment."