Demosthenes leaned against the wall, his eyes scanning the darkened streets from the top of his house that he’s renting. The night air carried a chill, and his cloak fluttered in the breeze, waiting, watching.

In this quiet moment, he found a rare opportunity for reflection. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a drachma, flipping it, then watching it spin through the air before catching it in his palm.

This wasn't just any coin. It held a special significance for him, bringing back memories of a man named Niketas. His mind wandered back to that fateful encounter, recalling the conversation they'd shared before Demosthenes had ended Niketas' life.

It was his process, his style. He always sought to engage his targets in meaningful dialogue before striking. He wanted to look into their eyes, to understand them on some level, before plunging his dagger into their chest. It was a ritual that brought him a strange sense of closure, a final connection before severing all ties.

The man had been surprisingly articulate, even knowing his end was near. They'd discussed philosophy, politics, and the nature of power. Though Niketas had known who Demosthenes was and why he was there, he faced his fate with a certain dignity that the assassin couldn't help but respect.

Each life Demosthenes took left its mark, not just on the world but on him as well. He wasn't one for regrets - his chosen path didn't allow for such luxuries - but he did carry the memories of those he'd killed.

Demosthenes' gaze drifted back to the streets below. The city slept, unaware of the deadly predator in its midst. He wondered about the lives down there, the dreams and aspirations of people who would never know how close they came to crossing paths with an assassin.

The coin continued to dance between his fingers as Demosthenes lost himself in thought. He considered his next target, the preparations he'd need to make, the information he still needed to gather. But for now, in this quiet moment, he allowed himself to simply be.

A figure materialized from the shadows, approaching with silent steps from behind. As the figure drew closer, the night light revealed a tall, muscular man. A dark mask covered the upper half of his face, leaving only his mouth and chin visible. At his waist, a belt held several small daggers, their hilts within easy reach. Slung across his back, a chain and sickle clinked softly as he moved. His outfit was practical, designed for stealth and quick action rather than show.

"Master," the newcomer said.

Demosthenes turned to face him. "Lykos. You're here."

"As requested," he replied, inclining his head slightly.

Demosthenes' mind wandered to the day he'd first encountered Lykos in the slave market. He had been there on business, tracking a target, when his eyes fell upon the young man. There was something in Lykos' stance, a defiance in his eyes that spoke of untapped potential.

On impulse, he purchased him. It wasn't an act of kindness, but one of calculated investment. He saw in Lykos a tool that could be honed, sharpened into a deadly weapon.

His training had been brutal. Demosthenes was not a gentle teacher, and Lykos bore the scars of his education. But as the months passed, the young slave's natural talent with the chain and sickle emerged. His speed and agility grew, until he could strike a target from impossible angles, the weapon becoming an extension of his own body.

Lykos never complained, never questioned. He absorbed every lesson, every harsh word, every punishment that impressed even the hardened assassin. Slowly, a bond formed between them, forged in blood.

Now, years later, Lykos stood as Demosthenes' most trusted ally. The assassin knew, without a shred of doubt, that there was no task he could set that Lykos would refuse. The loyalty went beyond that of a servant to a master. It was the devotion of a weapon to its wielder, absolute and unquestioning.

Demosthenes glanced back at his protégé. Lykos' face was partially obscured by his mask, but his eyes were alert, scanning their surroundings for any hint of danger. The chain at his waist clinked softly as he shifted his weight, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

"Did you bring the information I asked for?" Demosthenes asked.

He nodded. "I followed Drakon, as you ordered. Watched his daily routines, his comings and goings."

"And? What did you discover?"

Lykos shifted his weight. "The old man... he's been frequenting the slums. Visiting a group of orphaned children."

"Orphans? Are you certain?"

"Without a doubt. I observed him multiple times. He seems to have taken a particular interest in their welfare."

"Interesting," Demosthenes mused, stroking his chin. "This is unexpected. Tell me more about these visits."

"He goes there almost daily. Brings food, sometimes coin. Spends hours with them, talking, teaching."

"Teaching?" Demosthenes's eyebrows rose. "What could he possibly be teaching street urchins?"

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"I’m not really sure, but it's... peculiar to say the least."

"Indeed."

"What do you make of it?"

"It could be nothing," Demosthenes said. "Maybe he’s seeking redemption, perhaps."

"Redemption on what, master?"

"For his past mistakes. Or…"

"Or?"

"He’s trying to build up a family of his own."

"That seems far fetch given his reputation."

"People sometimes change my pupil. Especially if they’re doing it out of love."

"Love?" Lykos snorted. "A weak emotion."

Demosthenes drifted to the countless hours spent training his protégé, drilling into him the importance of detachment. Emotions complicated their work, creating vulnerabilities that could be exploited.

He remembered Agrippina, his wife from what felt like a lifetime ago. Her smile, her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled when she was happy. He'd have moved mountains for her, faced down armies. And that devotion had nearly been his undoing.

His enemies had seen her as a weakness, a chink in his armor. They'd used her against him, and he'd come close to losing everything. The memory of her final moments, the fear in her eyes as she slipped away, still haunted him.

In the years since, Demosthenes had hardened his heart. He'd poured all his energy into honing his skills, becoming a living weapon. And when he'd found Lykos, he'd seen an opportunity to create someone even deadlier than himself.

From the beginning, he'd been clear with the boy. There was no room for sentiment in their line of work. Attachments were liabilities, emotions were distractions. Even the bond between master and apprentice had to remain cold, purely professional.

Demosthenes had pushed Lykos to his limits, breaking him down and rebuilding him as a ruthless killer. He'd never praised the boy, never shown affection. Any hint of weakness was met with harsh punishment. The boy had surpassed all expectations, becoming a force to be reckoned with.

For a moment, Demosthenes allowed himself to imagine a different path. What if he'd allowed himself to care for Lykos as a son? What if he'd shown kindness along with discipline? But he quickly pushed such thoughts aside. The world they lived in had no place for softness.

He'd given Lykos the tools to survive, to thrive in the shadows. That was more valuable than any false sense of family. Love was a luxury they couldn't afford, a weakness that could get them both killed.

Demosthenes continue to keep Lykos at arm's length, to treat him as nothing more than a useful asset. It was the only way to ensure they both stayed alive in this dangerous game they played.

"Don’t underestimate it," he said. "Love can drive men to extremes, both noble and nefarious. It’s a potent motivator, more so than fear or ambition. I should know. I’ve been there myself."

"I know master," Lykos nodded. "What would you have me do next?"

Demosthenes turned to face his agent. "Continue your surveillance. I want to know everything about these children. Their names, their backgrounds. And Drakon... I want to know his every move."

"Understood," Lykos said, straightening up. "Anything else?"

"Yes. Find out where that boy Lucian lives. He still has my necklace."

"Duly noted," Lykos nodded. "And if the old man becomes... problematic?"

Demosthenes held up a hand. "Call me. I want to kill him with my own hands."

"As you wish, master," Lykos said, bowing.

As he turned to leave, Demosthenes called out, "And one other thing?"

The masked man paused, looking back over his shoulder.

"Be careful. Drakon may be old, but he's still dangerous. Don't let him catch you watching."

Lykos nodded once more, then melted back into the shadows, leaving his master alone with his thoughts.

A soft rustle of fabric and the faint scent of lavender alerted Demosthenes to a new presence behind him. He didn't turn, keeping his gaze fixed on the streets below, where the occasional passerby hurried through the night.

"I cannot believe that you still take orders from that man," a woman's voice said.

Demosthenes allowed himself a small smile, recognizing the voice immediately. "Ah, you've returned, Yen," he said, his eyes still on the city below. "I assumed you've taken care of the target I gave you."

Footsteps approached, and Yen stepped into the light. Her black cloak swirled around her. Her face, usually hidden in shadow, was visible now - sharp cheekbones, dark eyes that missed nothing, and a scar that ran from her left temple to her jaw, leaving her right eye with an eye patch.

"Yes," she said. "It's done. But you still haven't answered my question."

Demosthenes sighed, finally turning to face her. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms over his chest. "I don't like Kyra myself. But I stay because of common interest."

"What common interest?" she pressed, taking a step closer.

"It's better that you don't know."

A bark of laughter escaped her lips. "Men and their secrets," she spat. "How absurd."

Demosthenes studied her face, noting the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers twitched near the hidden blade at her waist.

"I hired you to follow orders. Not to question my methods."

"And I've followed every order you've given me," she shot back. "I've killed for you, stolen for you, bled for you. But I'm not some mindless puppet. I have a right to know what I'm risking my life for."

Demosthenes pushed off the wall, closing the distance between them. "You know what you need to know. Nothing more, nothing less."

"Bullshit," Yen hissed, not backing down. "You're playing a dangerous game. I can see it in your eyes. Whatever you're mixed up in with Kyra, it's big. And if it goes south, we'll all pay the price."

For a moment, Demosthenes considered telling her everything - about his divine heritage, about being the long lost son of Hades. But he pushed the impulse aside. Time will come when confessions can be made and secrets unveiled, but not tonight.

"Trust me," he said. "The less you know, the safer you are."

"Safe? In our line of work? Don't insult me."

Demosthenes turned away. He needed to redirect this conversation before it spiraled further. "The target," he said, facing her again. "How did you handle it?"

"Poison, of course," she replied. "You know it's my specialty."

"Details," Demosthenes said, crossing his arms.

"I infiltrated his villa during a feast. Posed as a serving girl. The fool couldn't keep his hands to himself, which made it all too easy to get close."

She reached into a hidden pocket in her cloak and pulled out a small vial. "I developed this one myself. Odorless, colorless, and it mimics the symptoms of a heart attack. I slipped it into his wine when he was distracted by... other pursuits."

Demosthenes nodded. "And the body?"

"Left where it fell," Yen said with a shrug. "By the time they found him, the poison had already metabolized. To anyone else, it'll look like his debauchery finally caught up with him." She reached into another pocket and produced a signet ring. "This is the proof. I thought you might want a trophy."

Demosthenes took the ring, turning it over in his hands. The weight of it felt significant, a small piece of evidence that another life had been snuffed out at his command.

"Good work," he said, pocketing the ring. "Clean, efficient. Just as I expected from you."

"Don't think this changes anything. I did the job, yes. But I still don’t trust that Kyra."

"Nor should you. There are things at play here that go beyond just you and me, but don’t worry about it. I have already have something in mind about him."