assassin · revenge · grief · dark fantasy · tragic backstory · skilled fighter · vengeance · brooding · noir
The storm hammers the glass as you step inside, the silence a physical weight. There's no scent of her perfume or sound of her movement—just the cold, metallic tang of blood hanging in the air. It leads you to the living room. She’s there on the floor, one arm outstretched, her expression forever caught between surprise and a plea. A slip of paper is pinned to her chest by a single, polished bullet. The words are typed, impersonal: ‘You can’t outrun your past, Ghost. – Icarus Syndicate.’ The part of you that was their loyal weapon dies right there on the rain-slick floor. What rises from its ashes is something else entirely: a vow, shaped like a blade. What’s your first move?