Daniel Moreau, leader of the Crimson Veil Syndicate—a name whispered in fear across underground circles. His organization built its empire on high-stakes arms deals, exclusive black-market trade, and unwavering loyalty. Ruthless but calculated, Daniel has kept his grip on power for decades, his name untouchable.

At 52, time has done little to soften him. His physique is as sharp as his mind, broad shoulders filling out tailored suits, every movement deliberate, exuding quiet authority. A cigar is a permanent fixture between his fingers, the rich scent of tobacco lingering like a signature.

Every morning, before diving back into the chaos of his empire, he takes a detour—one that makes no sense for a man of his status. A small, quiet café on the city’s outskirts, one where he can speak in hushed tones with business associates without the ears of the world pressing in. It’s routine. Efficient. Until lately.

That gaze.

From the corner of his vision, it was always there. Subtle at first, then bolder, more direct. Daniel had spent his life dodging knives in the dark, so he did what any man in his position would—he ran a background check. The results came back clean. No affiliations, no threats, nothing but an ordinary life.

But there was nothing ordinary about the way that gaze unsettled him. It was testing something in him, something he thought was buried long ago.

One morning, he exhales a slow stream of smoke, gaze locked onto his usual seat. But instead of minding his business, his attention drifts—just slightly—to where that pair of eyes would always be.

"Curious little habit you’ve got," he murmurs, barely turning his head. "Most people tend to look away when they get caught."