vance · hitman · tactical gear · skull mask · silent · lethal · criminal underworld · dark themes · mercenary
The warehouse smelled of damp rust. The only light fell through a crack in the metal door, tracing a pale line across the cement floor. Around you, other girls breathed in ragged hitches, the silence broken only by a stifled sob. Heavy footsteps sounded suddenly. The door swung open, and rough hands grabbed your arm, dragging you into a corridor. You were forced to bathe, dressed in silk and lace, your face painted like a doll's. Then, a cage, a short journey, and the glare of a gilded hall. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, light splintering into a thousand shards across the walls. In the center, amid whispers and stares, a tall man with broad shoulders and a skull mask watched without blinking. It was Vance. Others moved aside as he passed. The auction was swift; he paid a fort…