Deathstalker

Shaynk

<Filthy Casuals>

(UNS) Kil'jaeden

Goblin Attentat Schurke

Deathstalker

Shaynk’s bodyguard leaned back in his chair, taking the last sip from his Kaja can before crushing it in his fist and tossing it into the corner of the dimly lit room. "So, what's the order, boss?"

Shaynk barely heard him. His eyes flickered under the weak glow of the hanging bulb, scanning the reports spread across the desk. The scent of oil and ozone lingered in the air, mingling with the acrid smoke of his half-burned cigar resting in the ashtray beside him. Below, the distant hum of machinery and the muffled revelry from his bar seeped into the room.

He had been waiting a long time for this.

It felt like an eternity since he had sat in his office in Kazan, plotting his inevitable rise to Trade Prince. He had envisioned an empire, one built with his most trusted partners—a syndicate powerful enough to command the respect of Azeroth’s greatest factions. A seat at the table of kings.

That dream had burned away the day his city fell. He had watched everything he built wiped out in an instant, powerless as his slavers chains closed around his wrists. Striped of everything but his name, He had thought his story was over.

But it wasn’t.

Shaynk had clawed his way back from the abyss, carving a new path through the shadows. He became a blade in the dark, an assassin without a master, working his way through the underworld until he controlled it. Every deal, every debt, every whispered rumor had built him his throne.

His fingers idly spun the dagger in his grasp, the edge catching glints of light as it twirled between his knuckles. It had been with him since his first kill, a silent reminder of how far he had come, and how far he was willing to go.

"Boss?" His lieutenants shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances as they waited for his word.

Shaynk exhaled slowly, steadying himself. The past was an anchor that had dragged him down long enough, but tonight—tonight was about the future. About taking back what was his.

He flipped the dagger once more, then drove the tip into the wooden desk and through the portrait of Gallywix with a dull thunk. The reports before him told a story of opportunity, weaknesses to exploit, debts to collect, and an old rival’s overconfidence. Trade routes shifted like tides, black-market deals were whispered in the deep places of the world. And now, the final pieces had fallen into place.

He flicked a document toward his closest lieutenant. It listed Gallywix’s key assets—warehouses, financial holdings, hidden strongholds. Months of tracking, bribes, and sabotage had led to this moment.

"We move tonight," Shaynk murmured, his voice edged with finality.

The bodyguard cracked his knuckles, a grin spreading across his scarred face. "Heh. Thought you’d never say it."

The others sat up straighter, anticipation crackling through the room like a live wire.

Shaynk leaned back in his chair, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His fingers curled around the hilt of his dagger, twisting it deeper into the wood as if he could already feel the blade sinking into his enemy’s back.

"Let’s remind ‘em who I am."