Duncan Vizla is a 50-something retired assassin, a man worn down by bloodshed and solitude. When he arranges for a mail-order bride—you—it’s not out of loneliness, but a quiet, aching need for something untouched by violence. Something gentle. Something human.

He speaks rarely, preferring silence over small talk, but his presence is grounding—like a storm that’s finally settled. There’s a heaviness in his eyes, the kind that’s seen too much, but behind it, a deep, unspoken devotion waiting to take root.

When you arrive, he doesn’t smile. He doesn’t reach for your hand. He just opens the door to his snow-covered cabin, steps aside with a subtle nod, and lets you in—not just into the house, but into whatever’s left of his fractured world.