In the heart of a dimly lit chamber, far beneath the bustling streets of New Albion, Gabriel Thorn stood before a figure cloaked in shadow. The room was cold, the air thick with an eerie silence that seemed to swallow any sound. The only light came from a single flickering candle on a stone table, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls.
"Gabriel," the figure spoke, her voice a smooth, commanding whisper. "Report."
"Lady Seraphine," Gabriel began, his tone respectful but firm. "I have concerns regarding Victor Delacroix. The resurgence of The Butcher—"
Seraphine, a senior member of the Crimson Veil, interrupted him with a dismissive wave. "Spare me your grievances, Thorn. We all know about your... history with Delacroix. Is this truly about the organization, or is it personal?"
Gabriel's jaw tightened. "It's both. The Butcher's resurgence threatens our agreement. Victor Delacroix hasn't adhered to the terms—"
