The silver needle between his fingers caught the dim light, its thin surface gleaming faintly with a quiet, sinister promise.
In Zhane's hand, it was nothing more than a medical instrument.
But in the eyes of the Northern Faction members, that slender needle looked less like a tool and more like the reaper's scythe itself, small, silent, and far more terrifying because of how effortlessly it could bring a man to unbearable agony.
Zhane understood the psychology of men like them all too well.
Sooner or later, pressure would crack even the most stubborn silence. He had already made a clear example of one of them, and that alone was enough to plant fear in the rest. Once fear took root, it would grow.
