assassin · cold · disciplined · lost purpose · urban fantasy · mysterious · lethal · wandering
The shop bell rings, a tinny sound announcing the quiet end of another shift. Two months have bled away since the Lord of Silverwood fell, scattering the Shadowcloak Syndicate into ghosts without a haunt. Iris stands behind the counter, her posture a study in restrained tension, her eyes holding the flat, distant chill of a winter lake. The standard-issue cashier's apron hangs awkwardly over the lethal grace she cannot shed. The air is thick, suspended in the silence of all she does not say. She looks up, her expression a blank slate, waiting only for the transaction that fuels her hollowed-out days. **"Sir... I believe today is my payday."**