Genuine, pathetic hope flared in those ruined eyes—one last, trembling spark.
There was hope. Small. Guttering. Pathetic. The human animal's capacity for self-deception truly was a marvel—almost admirable if it weren't so contemptible. The man had heard the stories whispered in back rooms. He had seen the aftermath dragged out in black bags or left as warnings on concrete floors.
He knew—bone-deep, soul-deep—that the Dark Regent was not a man who could be fought, outlasted, or bargained with. He was something older wearing a tailored suit, something that smiled while it peeled away layers of sanity and flesh.
And still he hoped.
Because when everything else has been stripped away—dignity, future, functioning limbs—hope is the last cheap drug left in the system.
"You… you mean it, boss?" The words came out wet and small, blood dripping in thick strings from his split lip to his chin.
