The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the apartment as Ashen returned home. The conversation with Remy lingered in his mind, a mix of relief and unease. For a moment, it felt like he had buried the past—at least, until the knock on his door.
It was a firm, deliberate knock, the kind that sent a chill down Ashen's spine. He hesitated, his hand hovering over the doorknob. Old instincts flared, remnants of his past life as a mercenary. Slowly, he opened the door.
A man stood there, tall and lean, dressed in a dark suit. His face was unfamiliar, but the cold, calculating eyes were all too familiar—a reminder of the kind of people Ashen used to deal with. The man smiled, a thin, humorless line.
"Ashen," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "Or should I say, Ghost the Reaper of Death? It's been a while."
