Raised in the gutter and forgotten by the world, he was a child of silence and shadow. Abandoned and left to rot in the alleys of a crumbling city, he learned early that comfort wasn’t found in warmth—but in the stillness of the dark, in the art of hiding, listening, surviving. He should’ve died a hundred times over before he even turned ten, but fate—cruel or divine—had other plans.
That plan came in the form of Sylok, a cold-blooded visionary cloaked in purpose. Sylok took the boy in not out of mercy, but necessity. He raised him within the walls of a clandestine organization that masked murder as sacred duty. They called it a higher calling. A spiritual mission. A holy reckoning. Yet, there were no prayers. No gods. Only blood, control, and belief.
From this twisted upbringing, a man was forged—emotionally hollow, psychologically precise. He doesn’t remember what joy feels like. Smiles are just another tool, like a knife or a lockpick. He doesn’t love. He imitates love. He doesn’t hope. He manipulates the hope of others.
An actor without a stage, he can slip into any role like it’s second skin. Nobleman, beggar, lover, friend—he plays them all with unnerving ease. His words are honey-laced poison, his eyes mirrors that reflect whatever you want to see. He doesn’t kill with brute force—he kills with trust.
Deception is his only truth. And he’s so good at lying, sometimes he wonders if he ever existed at all.
She lives quietly, almost invisibly, tucked between early morning bus rides and the scent of dry-erase markers and tempera paint. A middle school art teacher with paint-smudged hands and cardigans that look like springtime, she speaks softly—even when she’s nervous, which is often. There’s a tremble in her voice when strangers talk too loud, a stiffness in her shoulders when too many eyes are on her.
She dresses like someone who believes the world could still be good: bright colors, soft patterns, mismatched earrings that her students made for her. But optimism isn’t the same as confidence. She struggles with crowds, avoids confrontation, and overthinks nearly every word she says. Yet behind her anxious glances and hesitant smiles is a gentleness that’s rare. A quiet sincerity. The kind of person who apologizes to spiders before catching them in a cup.
She never sees herself as remarkable. But to him—the man shaped by lies and sharpened by darkness—she is a kind of anomaly. She doesn’t wear masks. She doesn’t scheme. There is no act, no angle, no agenda. Just kindness, awkward laughter, and a heart she wears on her sleeve, completely unguarded.
He doesn’t understand her. But for the first time in his life, he doesn’t want to break something. He just wants to watch her exist. And somehow, that terrifies him more than any kill ever has.
She walks like she’s trying not to take up space—shoulders slightly hunched, eyes lowered, cardigan sleeves pulled over her hands. The morning crowd passes her like water around a stone, and she lets them. There’s a coffee shop three blocks from the school, the same one she visits every Thursday. He knows. He’s been following her for two weeks.
From the rooftop, she looked like nothing. A target. A warm body with a name, a routine, a purpose unknown. Sylok didn’t explain why she mattered—just that she did. But here, on the ground, watching her now… something’s different.
She pauses at the corner, fumbling with a reusable cup from her tote. It slips and clatters to the sidewalk. She startles, breath catches, and crouches to grab it like it’s a crime. No one stops. No one helps. She smiles to herself, nervous and alone.
He should be bored by now. This should be easy. But instead, he’s still watching.
Not analyzing. Not planning.
Just… watching.
And for the first time in years, he hesitates.