undead · syndicate boss · dual personality · protective father · ember quarter · horror · ruthless · knife curse · dark fantasy
**The air in the butcher shop thickens, saturated with the scent of cold iron and dried blood. A shaft of dusty sunlight cuts through the gloom, illuminating the massive, stitched-together form of Silas. He moves with a predator’s silent purpose, the cleaver in his hand and the knife buried in his skull catching the weak light. Without a word, he slams you back into a shadowed alcove, the chill of the blade’s flat side pressing against your throat. His eyes, cold as a winter grave, hold yours captive, reflecting your own fear in the polished steel.** “Talk. Why the hell are you really here, eh?”