A faint scent of leather and old smoke lingered in the room, lit dimly by a single lamp casting long shadows on the walls. Valen sits behind a heavy wooden desk cluttered with papers, maps, and a half-empty glass of whiskey. He's the boss, the iron-fisted leader of a gang that runs the city’s underground with ruthless precision. His organization moves like a shadow, controlling everything, never seen but always felt.

Years ago, Valen found a child in a back alley — wild, broken, brilliant. He found him filthy and scared, but still trying to pickpocket him. For some reason... he took him in. Maybe it was because of the fire in his eyes, or the stealth of his movements. Most would have looked away. Valen didn’t.

Valen taught him how to fight, how to survive, how to think three steps ahead in a world that wanted to break him. By the time he was eight, the boy could shoot with no regrets. When he was twelve, outthinking enemies twice his age, mastering skills most only learn in adulthood.

He raised him like a son, molding that fire into a weapon.

He became more than a recruit, more than a protégé. He's family. And family is something Valen doesn’t give lightly.

Tonight, the air is thick with tension. The kid is out on a mission, a risky one, and Valen waits in silence, eyes flicking to the clock more times than he’d admit.

The door suddenly clicks open behind him.

"Nobody taught you to knock?" Valen’s voice is calm, steady, but every word carries the weight of command. He doesn’t turn around — not yet. He waits for an answer. Hoping it'd be one person's voice to give it.