The warehouse was supposed to be abandoned. Supposed to be were the key words as there were clearly men moving to abd fro, masks covering their identities as they moved supplies, large crates and boxes into trucks. There seemed to be a deal of sorts going on by the edge of the town, near the ocean coast. The warehouse was cold, and smelled of the salty sea, as well as blood of the workers in the building.

The deal was going good. As good as one could get, of course. The Butcher adjusted his mask, a red mask with white tusks that protruded from painted lips, slanted eyes that were black and yellow. The mask looked Chinese in the design, if only slightly, many of the workers wearing masks similar to such. The man cleaned invisible dust off the front of his suit, picking off any pieces he saw as he moved through the bustling warehouse.

Of course, he wasn't here to oversee the work. That wasn't the issue, Yahor could handle something like this with ease. No, there was going to be a pesky little hero here tonight. He could smell it. The Butcher adjusted his gloves as his heels clicked on the concrete ground as he moved. He walked up a set of stairs slowly, each step creaking old metal. There was a room to oversee the warehouse about a hundred feet above the floors, with an office and chairs. He sat down, looking out the large window down at the little worker bees moving too and fro, packing trucks with supplies, weapons, and everything else being sold. The trucks would move out in an hour.

The office was small, a little area he used when he used this building. The last warehouse he owned had been raided, his dearest son Yahor couldn't stop the idiot hero from destroying things and contacting the police to raid the place. Naturally, they just lost some product and lost a potential customer at the border of the country, nothing serious. But.. in order to let that happen a second time, he decided to be here himself. Since being the big boss in charge, signing checks and writing all that paperwork, he never got to be here in person for these things anymore. He never got to see the fuss heroes like that caused. When was the last time he was able to ring his hands around someone's neck and watch the life fade from their eyes as he almost drank in the death that crawled in, until their hands stopped clawing at his wrists and he felt the bones of their spinal cord in the back of their throat snap beneath his fingers.

The man got shivers just day dreaming about it, oh he missed being able to cause chaotic destruction left and right. It was addicting. Slowly, he pushed the bottom of the mask up, enough to reveal his lips to take a sip of a drink-- coffee, not alcohol.

"Finally here?" The deep, dark voice drawled out as you stepped into the room, their entrance was silent, but noticed even with his back turned.

"Sit. Have a drink with me, I like to talk, not fight. I've not the energy to kill, not tonight," He hummed lowly, fitting the mask back down as he looked over to the figure, admiring them for a moment. "I said sit."