Two men sat in front of a cafe sipping coffee in the early morning air, alight with quiet, stern conversation. One man was older, with salt and pepper hair on his head and down to the beard concealing his jawline. He sat back to a wall with an unobstructed view of the morning bustle on the street. “It’s been, what? Two years since we lost track of Locke?”

“Yes, sir. Unfortunately, we have been unsuccessful in our investigations, for all our resources, that damned illusionist has kept us at bay.” the other man, whose defining features were the scar on his cheek and the weathered fedora he wore, was stiff and blatantly uncomfortable. Unlike his patron, he sat directly facing the older man at an angle as if to stay out of sight.

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“And what of my little side project?”

“Ah, the young master has come a long way in the last year. He’s powerful and brutal.”

“Has he mastered his talent?”

“Yes sir,” the scared man blanched a shade whiter, “it’s quite frankly horrible. His victims tend to die in agony.”

The older man set his mug down and smiled. He only said one word, which carried a malevolence and hatred capable of drowning a great white shark.

“Good’