Gereon stepped over a pile of still-warm bodies, brushing stone dust from his shoulder. The assassin's den was quieter now, though the air still carried the faint scent of booze and burnt leather.
He was about to make his way deeper when the temperature dropped.
Gereon felt like he was playing a roguelike, even though he didn't know what that meant.
A low scraping sound drifted through the cathedral's broken arches. Not the shuffle of a survivor — this was slower, deliberate, like someone wanted their footsteps to be heard.
From the far end of the ruined hall, a figure emerged through a grand doorway too dark on the inside. Gereon was convinced that these guys knew how to set up a perfect scene. They should have tried cinematics instead of acrobatics and killing.
Long brown coat, frayed at the edges. A navy triangular hat that somehow looked ridiculous and menacing at the same time. His boots crunched over shattered stone like he had all the time in the world.
