The alley was cloaked in darkness, with only the faintest slivers of moonlight cutting through. The dim glow caught on the stones, revealing a huddled figure trembling in the grime. 

The man was older, his hair streaked with gray, his clothes disheveled, and his face etched with fear. He was kneeling, his breaths shallow, his eyes darting like a trapped animal.

"If only you'd been smarter," a voice murmured, its tone smooth yet cold, like steel sliding from its sheath. The figure standing before him was barely visible, a shadow against the night, but the glint of green eyes shone with an unnatural brightness, piercing through the dimness with unsettling clarity.

"If only you'd known to run," the voice continued, a haunting, almost mocking note coloring his words. 

The older man shivered, his body rigid as he tried to assess any possible escape. "Oh, I would've found you still," the figure in the dark mused, taking a slow, measured step forward, "but at least you'd have shown some survival instincts, mate."

Collins's frail form trembled, but desperation flared in his eyes as he slowly rose from his knees, squaring his shoulders with a trembling resolve. 

In the faint light, he saw his attacker more clearly—a tall, imposing figure with hair as black as midnight and a gaze that seemed to dissect him where he stood. 

Collins swallowed, gathering what little courage he had, then lunged clumsily, fists raised, hoping to catch the Witcher off guard.

With a slight shift, the figure sidestepped the feeble strike, his expression one of mild irritation. He watched Collins's shaky form attempt another weak swing, which he deflected with effortless grace. 

Letting out a disappointed sigh, the figure shook his head. "How pathetic can you be?" he tsked, the scorn in his voice cutting deeper than any blade.

Collins stumbled, collapsing back to his knees, his feigned courage draining as quickly as it had come. "D-don't kill me," he stammered, desperation lacing his plea.

the figure's lips twisted into a chilling smirk. "Is that a command?" His tone was mocking, his green eyes glinting with dark amusement.

Collins's voice wavered as he tried to muster defiance. "You… you can't kill me."

the figure laughed—a low, sinister sound that sent chills down Collins's spine. "Now you're just being delusional, Mr. Collins." His voice turned deadly. "You are most definitely going to die—by my hands."

Panic took hold of Collins's eyes, but as they flicked from side to side, the figure's intense gaze locked onto him, rooting him in place. "I will kill you," he stated, the promise of death echoing in the silence of the alley.

"Please, don't kill me." Collins's voice was a whimper, a pathetic echo of what it had once been.

the figure paused, silent, as if savoring the terror before him.

"Please… I beg of you," Collins continued, voice rising in desperation. "I have riches. Girls. Whatever you want."

the figure tilted his head, feigning interest, a flicker of amusement passing over his face. Collins clutched onto the hope, his eyes brightening as he sensed a sliver of mercy. "What do you want?" he asked, clinging to his words as if they were his last lifeline.

The Witcher's gaze narrowed. "You have girls?"

Collins nodded eagerly. "Yes, yes, a dozen of them. You could take any of them—"

"I want Cesita," the figure's voice cut through his rambling, the demand cold and final.

Collins's face fell, his shoulders stiffening as he clung to one last shred of defiance. "You… you can't have her," he shrieked, his voice cracking as he clutched onto the last of his pride. "You'll never find her… and even if you do, she won't give you what you desire."

the figure's gaze hardened, a dangerous glint flashing in his eyes. "Yes," he murmured, his voice low and deadly, "let me find that out myself."

With a flick of his fingers, a spark ignited, and in an instant, flames engulfed Collins, his desperate screams echoing into the night as the fire consumed him. The green eyed figure watched with an indifferent expression, his smirk barely fading as he turned from the burning figure.

Without a glance back, he continued down the alley, his steps slow, measured, and unhurried.

This stranger had no mercy in his heart and the only humane thing he craved was Cesita.

His name? Viscount Victore Reyes.