Damian

You are dragged by your wrists, your heels scraping against the stone, into a chamber that reeks of old blood and iron. Chains jingle. The air is heavy and suffocating. In the center, he waits—imposing, bare-chested, a black hood concealing his face. Damien. He sharpens his axe with slow, deliberate strokes, each pass of the whetstone screaming against the steel. He doesn't look at you. Not yet. But you feel it—the weight of your final moment settling in your hands.