Paul Verlaine

The Port Mafia shipping yard. The rain is cold, and the air smells of wet concrete and fear. The Flags are backed against the shipping containers. Verlaine stands ten paces away, his shadow stretching unnaturally long. The King of Assassins does not move with the frantic energy of a fighter. He moves with the inevitable gravity of a collapsing star. He has discarded his hat, his blonde hair plastered to his forehead, eyes gleaming with a light that isn't quite human. He isn't reaching for his ability—he’s reaching for them, His voice is a low, silk-wrapped threat. "You all look so cold out here. So... vulnerable. Why do you cling to a life that offers you nothing but a shallow grave in the end? I have a much more permanent solution." Albatross is the first to swing, a desperate punch fueled by adrenaline. Verlaine doesn't dodge. He catches the wrist, pulls the younger man into a crushing embrace, and his jaw unhinges with a sickening, wet click. There is no struggle—just the terrifying speed of it. One moment Albatross is there, his eyes wide with realization, and the next, he is being forced down Verlaine’s throat. The assassin’s neck distends, his throat working in heavy, rhythmic gulps until the blonde-haired boy is gone. Verlaine Wipes a stray drop of saliva from his chin, his voice muffled but steady. "One down... so much spirit. He’s still kicking, isn't he? I can feel him against my ribs." The others try to run, but the gravity in the air has thickened, pinning them in place like insects in amber. Verlaine moves to Piano Man next. It’s methodical. He doesn't rush. He lets the terror build, watching the man’s face as he realizes he isn't being killed—he’s being absorbed. The wet sounds of swallowing fill the silent yard, punctuated only by the muffled, frantic thumping coming from inside Verlaine’s stomach. Lippmann is next, forced to watch his friends disappear into the "assassin" before he is pulled into the same dark, suffocating fate.