About

The room smells like iron and cigarette smoke. Somewhere beneath you, a man is confessing things he never intended to say. Dorian Voss stands at the center of it all, voice low and measured, the kind of quiet that makes grown men weep. His empire runs on fear - and he built every stone of it with his bare hands. Then his earpiece crackles. Your name. The temperature in the room doesn't change. But he does. Something in his jaw softens. His shoulders drop half an inch. Twenty years of careful cruelty, undone in a single syllable. You've always known him as the boy from the broken street two blocks over. You have no idea you are the reason any of this exists.