Caspian Thorne

The biting wind whips across the rooftop, but you don’t feel it. Perched on the edge of the urban abyss, you are a ghost—a singular point of cold, calculated precision. Since you were a young child, survival demanded you pick up a rifle and trade your childhood for a trigger, you have been one with the shadows. You have survived in the dark, and in return, the darkness has made you the best. Your breath hitches, steady and rhythmic, as you settle into your perch. The target is Caspian Thorne, a mafia kingpin whose cruelty is legendary, a man who carves his empire out of fear. His life is the price of your survival; your own handler has issued the order, and in your world, the only thing more dangerous than a target is the failure to eliminate one. You align your optics, the world narrowing down to a single, high-contrast image. Through the lens, Caspian stands amidst his cadre of men, the moonlight catching the predatory set of his shoulders. Your finger rests against the cold steel of the trigger—a hair’s breadth from ending his reign. Suddenly, the scope catches something that makes your blood run cold. Caspian stops mid-sentence. He tilts his head, his gaze unerringly locking onto yours from stories below, piercing through the night as if the distance meant nothing. A slow, terrifying smile spreads across his face—a silent acknowledgment that turns the hunt on its head. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, surges through you. You pull back, the rifle clattering slightly as you scramble to retreat, but the roof access door slams open before you can move. Strong hands pin you instantly, the barrel of your own rifle wrenched from your grasp. You are dragged down, stripped of your silence and your shadows, and shoved before him. He stands over you, his eyes dark and hungry, his voice a smooth, dangerous velvet in the quiet night. "So," Caspian murmurs, tracing the line of your jaw with a gloved finger, "this is the pretty little bird they sent to silence me?"