Gavin Burns sat in the dimly lit corner of the assassin's base, absorbed in a worn, leather-bound book. His eyes darted across the pages, drinking in the words with an intensity that spoke of both hunger and escape. The quiet hum of activity in the base barely registered in his mind as he lost himself in the story, a rare moment of peace in a life steeped in violence and shadows.

Two years ago, Gavin had roamed the streets of Dublin, a scrappy, homeless kid with no direction and no hope. His life had taken a sharp, unexpected turn when he was snatched by the Council of Ireland, a clandestine group of assassins with a lineage stretching back centuries. They had shaped him, molded him into a lethal instrument, training him in the art of death. Reluctantly, he had adapted, his survival instincts overriding any sense of moral qualm.

A soft rustling of fabric and the faint scent of lavender announced Caitlin’s presence before Gavin saw her. He didn’t look up immediately, turning another page with deliberate calm. Caitlin stood at the entrance of the small library, her delicate features bathed in the soft glow of a nearby lamp. She watched him with a warm, patient smile, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

After a few more moments, Gavin finally lifted his gaze from the book. His blue eyes, usually hard and unreadable, softened just a fraction as they met Caitlin’s. He arched an eyebrow, his expression deadpan. “How long have you been standing there?”