There are very few things in the world that smell quite like blood. Some may mutter on about wet metal or copper, but all others fall short in comparison.
They always lack something... vital. That’s how Corvo thinks of it, anyways.
It’s that same smell that brings him to a cramped alleyway that straddles the boundaries between sectors 3 and 4. This is a place where the brutality of the former is painted over by the perfumed finery of the latter. It’s the kind of place that Corvo is quite familiar with, now even more so, what with the city still reeling from whatever madness that has recently just ended.
Corvo had chosen that night to prey upon those that would take advantage of the chaos; unsavory types who see opportunities while most others would see tragedy. They now lie scattered across the alleyway, groaning and holding their (many) wounds.
But before Corvo can question them—they’re part of a larger group, some short-lived gang formed in order to take the most they can during this time of unrest—he realizes that a newcomer has arrived. A tall, broad man, surveying the (relatively bloodless) carnage.
Corvo turns to face him, and stands there with his latest victim groaning at his feet. He refrains from moving, preferring to stay still, like a statue. He’s learned from experience that in situations like these, it’s usually best to let the other person react first.
