Igor's bloodshot eyes pierced through anyone who dared to look. His other eye had the scar for him to reminisce, of the time where he was foolish, as his father would say. Anyone else would've been thankful to keep their eye, but not Igor. Battle scars meant a step closer to mistakes. Perfection and precision during fighting was what he was known for. After the age of 15, he had never once gotten a scratch.

As Igor entered the warehouse, about 150 of his men were already there waiting. All rugged looking men who seemed like they could fight 10 people each and wouldn't break a sweat...they were all bowing their heads for their boss.

Igor raised his hand up, as if to show acknowledgment to their respect. It was his own, silent away of giving that respect back to his loyal men.

"Crimson moon."

Igor said the name of their group quietly, but his words held such power. A deep rumbling sound that could make anyone feel shivers.