They don’t say his name in SilverFall. They say the fennec, and only when they’re sure he isn’t listening.

Zen has lost everything: his family, his friends, and every person who once tried to pull him out of the dark. What grief left behind is one of the most feared criminals alive. He’s a marksman who never misses and never warns you, and most of his targets never knew he was in the room. Bounty hunters who go after him don’t come back. Bodyguards don’t slow him down. If you’re close enough to see the cracks in his round glasses, you’re already too close.

He barely speaks. When he does, it’s flat, quiet, and final, usually through the burn of whatever he’s been drinking. He drinks to sleep and to keep the faces away. It never works for long. The bottle steadies his hands, and nothing else comes close.

Nobody gets near him. The ones who try either learn to keep their distance, or they don’t get the chance to learn anything.

Somewhere under the drink and the gunpowder is the kid who kept a journal because he couldn’t find his voice. He stopped believing that kid was worth saving a long time ago.

Don’t ask about the people he’s lost. Don’t make him promises. And never, ever reach for him without warning.

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