Night city. The lights are blazing. A skyscraper looms high, and in the window on the top floor, the reflection of a man can be seen – a man sitting in an armchair, speaking into a phone:

– Find him and execute him. It must be a public execution. This is my city. And everyone – Savage or Higher One – must know: the power here belongs to me. No action is allowed without my permission, especially touching the members of the Organization. Antoine was like a brother to me... and that so-called “Heart Reaver” gutted him like an animal. So here's what you do – contact Ulrich, let him take Vann, and I allow them to have fun. Report to me on every move. Do you hear me?

Ending the call, he rose from the chair, moving slowly toward the window.
His towering figure – almost TWO METERS TALL – cast a long shadow across the room. Short, neatly styled hair, a DEEP RED SILK ROBE that clung to his broad shoulders like flowing blood.

Behind him, soft steps clicked on the marble floor – a woman. She approached soundlessly, like a shadow – long black hair cascading down her NAKED BACK, her legs sheathed in the sleek fabric of business trousers, heels striking sharp accents against the silence. She stopped five centimeters away – so close he could feel the heat of her body, but still not daring to touch.

– May I press against you? she asked, her voice a whisper full of reverence.

He gave her silent permission. She leaned into him, wrapping her arms gently around his waist.
Her bare skin brushed the silk of his robe, sending tremors through both of them.

– What happened? Can I help? she murmured into his back.

– Antoine is dead, he said flatly.

– How? she breathed.

His answer was ice – a voice of iron:

– It doesn’t matter. It will be dealt with. But... I feel anger.

The word anger from him made her heart flutter. Without a word, she lifted her left hand and snapped her fingers twice.

From the shadows, a young man emerged – immaculate, polished, about twenty-five years old, tall and lean like a model. He knelt gracefully, crawling forward between the window and the Lord.
Without hesitation, he bent to kiss and lick the Lord’s feet, slowly moving higher.

The Lord closed his eyes. His head bowed forward slightly. The woman, with trembling devotion, ran her hands slowly over the silk covering his body, feeling him shudder under her touch.

He exhaled – low, deep. Then lowered his head further, reaching out with both hands, placing them around the young man's neck. Gently at first, he pulled him upward.

The young man, mistaking the movement for tenderness, pressed against him, his heart pounding.
For a fleeting second, he believed – foolishly – that he was about to be kissed.

He closed his eyes, surrendering.

But the Lord did not kiss him.

Instead, the grip on his neck tightened – and with one smooth, terrible movement, he hoisted the young man into the air, arms fully extended. The young man’s breath hitched – a gasp, a strangled moan. His body writhed helplessly.

The Lord bared his teeth – a smile, or a snarl, no one could tell.

At that moment, the world lost its color. Everything slowed.

Above him, a colossal essence unfurled – a monstrous being with the serpentine neck of a snake and the draconic head of a nightmare. The Lord's arms and the essence's limbs fused together, becoming one monstrous force.

The young man's skin erupted into blisters – angry welts of boiling flesh. His scalp blackened first, then his whole face, his neck, his shoulders. Smoke rose; the expensive silk robe he wore began to smolder.

The woman, realizing the horror unfolding, instinctively tried to tear her hands away – but the Lord, without turning, said in a cold, commanding voice:

– No.

She froze.

Where her skin touched his, burns bloomed instantly, searing through her flesh.
Above her, her own essence materialized – a sinuous serpent coiled in smoke and ash.

The charred patches of her body began to flake and peel away – falling in strips to the ground like a snake shedding its ruined skin.

After the Lord’s order, Ulrich and Vann had already set their plan in motion.

Meanwhile, unaware of the danger, Drogo awoke in his hotel room.

The morning sunlight streamed through the window. He washed his face, dressed, and paused for a moment, gazing at his reflection in the mirror. A strange impulse stirred inside him –  he found himself humming a cheerful tune: “It’s a beautiful day”.

It had been a long time since he had felt this good. A sly grin touched his lips.

HE’S HERE SOMEWHERE. I can feel it. And I want him... more than anything.

Assuming that his target was probably still at school, Drogo relaxed.

There’s time until lunch. Perfect.

He decided to take a stroll and grab a coffee from the same small café.

As he wandered through the streets, he petted a stray dog, saved a little girl on a bicycle from crashing into a streetlamp, winked at a group of giggling girls, and basked in the simple pleasure of being alive.

But fate had already set its snare.

The moment Drogo stepped onto one of the city’s main bustling streets, teeming with tourists, a trap was sprung. High above, on a rooftop overlooking the crowd, a heavyset man was lying in wait. Dressed in a white tank top and denim overalls, he adjusted the earpiece nestled in his ear, receiving the whispered command. Without hesitation, he began inhaling – sharp, deep, desperate gulps of air, swelling his chest unnaturally.

At the same time, he reached down and lifted a sleek, modern blowgun from the rooftop floor. The heavyset man’s essence loomed above him – a monstrous figure, reminiscent of a Mayan warrior, adorned with an immense ceremonial mask.

Then – a sharp exhale.

A dart, sleek and deadly, burst forth from the blowgun, slicing through the air.

It struck Drogo squarely in the back – a wet, crunching impact. Bones cracked. Tendons tore.

Before Drogo could react, a second dart pierced him, doubling the devastation. His body convulsed in agony. He staggered forward – then crumpled, face-first, toward the pavement.

In the breathless moments before blackout, a figure appeared in his faltering vision:
a middle-aged man, around fifty-five, stocky, wearing a pale polo shirt and a short-brimmed cap.
Above him loomed his essence – a grotesque butcher clad in a hockey mask and a thick, bloodstained rubber apron, brandishing a knife in each hand.

The man took a deliberate step toward Drogo – then pivoted aside, letting him collapse hard onto the ground.

Finished with his work, he slipped away into a narrow alley.

A crowd rushed to Drogo’s side, confused but concerned – it looked, at first, as if he had merely fainted.

But within seconds, a dark pool of blood seeped out from beneath him, staining the stone street.

One of the bystanders, identifying himself as a doctor, knelt to help. He turned Drogo’s body carefully – and froze.

The color drained from his face.

WHATEVER HE SAW WAS FAR BEYOND ANYTHING HE COULD FIX.