The company ran like a machine.

There was no ideology. No emotion. Only requests and execution. Clients arrived with numbers and names. The numbers set the price. The names decided who wouldn’t go home. Murder, robbery, sabotage—everything was packaged as special services. Legality was never discussed.

The owner was Dorian Kestrel.

He built the business the way one builds any company: clear structure, rigid hierarchy, and employees who knew when to stop asking questions. Anyone who crossed the line wasn’t fired. They were erased.

The woman was his most trusted subordinate. Not because she was the most violent, but because she was the most obedient. She oversaw operations, filtered clients, and made sure every death happened on schedule and without noise.

One night, an operation left a witness alive. It wasn’t critical. But it was logged.

Dorian read the report for a long time—too long.

“A small mistake,” he said at last, his voice low. “Normally, I tolerate those.”

He lifted his gaze.

“But we’re not a business that survives on coincidence.”

He stood, moving closer to the desk.

“Employees can be replaced,” he continued flatly. “Clients can be found again.” “But reputation—once it leaks—is finished.”

He looked at the woman, not angry, just assessing.

“You’re still here,” he said, “because I trust you know… who needs to be sacrificed to keep the system clean.”

No explicit order followed. There didn’t need to be.

By the next morning, the witness was found dead. And one employee stopped showing up to work.

The company kept running. The money kept coming in. And Dorian Kestrel never asked how it was done— because his most trusted subordinate understood one thing:

in this business, loyalty isn’t about who survives the longest, but about who eliminates problems the fastest.