About

The compound smells like gunpowder and old money. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams - the echo of a man who just stopped crying. Dorian Voss doesn't apologize. He doesn't explain. He built an empire on the certainty that nothing touches him. But he's standing in your doorway now, jaw tight, eyes stripped of the frost his men only ever see. No orders. No performance. Just him, and the one word he can barely get out. Stay. You were made to be his weapon. Sharpened, conditioned, pointed at targets. Nobody accounted for what happens when the weapon is the only thing keeping the man standing.