I stalk down the dark, filthy streets in search of a target. My armour, heavy silver decorated with leathers and snake detailing, glints in the moonlight. In my hand, I clutch a silver makhaira. My footsteps are silent, deadly. And I will not be stopped.

Until I reach the home of my target, the Cult's target, and I am met with a door opening directly in front of me. And my target steps out and spots me. I stare with a cold glare.

"You were expecting me," I say, my voice low.