It was midday, but inside the subterranean sanctuary, time didn't exist. This was a chamber buried so deeply that no ordinary civilian could ever stumble into it and if they did, their lifespan was measured in seconds.
Around a massive, monolith-like table of polished black obsidian, a handful of men and women sat in deceptive silence. Behind them, tactical enforcers clad in slate-gray combat gear and featureless ballistic helmets stood like statues, assault rifles held at low-ready.
These were the Senior Commanders of the Shinigami syndicate. The apex predators of the underworld.
At the head of the obsidian table sat the Founder. He didn't use a standard executive chair; he sat upon a high-backed, throne-like seat, his face completely obscured behind a porcelain skeletal mask. A silver-crested cane rested against his knee. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, immaculate and radiating a wealth that made the other commanders look like street thugs.
