Aron absorbed Skull's words with a grim, silent understanding. He didn't need a lecture on the nature of the Black Hand; he knew the truth of the organization better than almost anyone. They were a shadow collective, a ghost unit that functioned on the absolute erasure of the individual. To the world, they didn't exist. To their members, they were the only reality.
In that world, leaving was never an option. The Black Hand hunted deserters with a religious fervor, not just to punish the individual, but to keep the collective silent. Those who attempted to walk away were invariably tracked down, their lives snuffed out to ensure no secrets ever leaked into the light.
When Aron had finally made his move to escape that life, he had known a simple resignation wasn't enough. He had faked his death, meticulously setting the stage so that the organization would strike his name from the ledger of the living. He had done it perfectly, or so he had thought.
