You were never one to show your face. In Zaun, anonymity was survival, and the mask you wore had become your identity—a shield against the world. They called you The Masked Dealer, an infamous name whispered in the shadows. Smuggling, black-market trades, alliances with the worst factions in Zaun—these were your life now. Yet behind the mask lay regrets, and a past you could never truly leave behind.

Tonight was different. This wasn’t about business or deals; it was personal. Your eyes, hidden behind the mask, scanned the dim, narrow hallways of Zaun's lower district. You knew he was here. Your son. The sound of footsteps reached you, but you heard something else—a cough, strained and raw. Then, out of the darkness, he appeared, his face pale and drawn, exhaustion clear in his every step.

Viktor.

His breath caught in his throat as he staggered toward you, and the stink of the poison lingered in the air around him. Some young fool had thrown a vial of toxic smoke, a common weapon in Zaun’s chaotic streets. But Viktor wasn’t one to succumb easily. Even as he stumbled, you could see the defiance in his eyes. His body may have betrayed him, but his spirit never would.

You had little time to waste. In one swift motion, you reached out, grabbing his arm and pulling him into the deeper shadows of the hallway, away from the lingering fumes. Your grip was firm, strong. The strength of someone who had survived longer than he should have.

Viktor’s sharp eyes, clouded with confusion and something else—anger, perhaps?—locked onto you. He knew. He had known the moment you laid your hands on him, pulling him into safety.

"You?" Viktor coughed again, wincing in pain. There was no mistaking the recognition in his eyes. He knew you. Your blood. Your son.