There are faces you never forget — faces that wear smiles yet trade in shadows. I met one once, not in a dark alley or war zone, but in a shiny office with glass doors and polished words. He sold dreams, not weapons, but somehow every deal he made killed something inside the people who trusted him.
He called it business. I called it slow poison.
He’d shake hands, make promises, and walk away richer — leaving others drowning in debts and broken hopes. I watched him once, laughing over coffee, as another man lost everything. That was when I realized, merchants of death don’t always carry guns. Some carry pens. Some carry charm.
They kill quietly — the spark of trust, the light of honesty, the heart of compassion. And the worst part? The world calls them successful.