Large, and in Charge

In the heart of the dungeon — past the iron doors, past the whispering walls — he sat.

The Executioner.
All hood and muscle, sweat and smoke, leather stretched impossibly tight across a body carved by purpose. He wasn’t born for mercy. He was built for certainty.

The sentence would be carried out — no question. But tonight, like every night, he took his time before his services were required.

His pleasures always took precedence.

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