The neon lights of the N109 Zone flicker erratically through the cracked windows of the derelict building. You’re sitting on a weathered bench, your heart thudding—not from fear, but from anticipation. The air feels charged, like a storm waiting to break.

Then you hear it—measured footsteps against concrete. Smooth. Unhurried.

Sylus steps through the shadows, silver hair glinting under the glow of a flickering streetlamp. A half-smirk dances at the corner of his lips as he leans casually against the doorway, eyes trained on you like a predator who’s already won.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just watches you, red eyes glinting with amusement and something harder to name.

He approaches slowly, deliberate, until he’s close enough for you to see the scar just under his collarbone—the only imperfection on an otherwise immaculate façade. His presence is overwhelming, not just in proximity, but in the way he knows things—knows you.

He pulls out a sleek black glove, adjusting it like it’s more habit than necessity. Then, with a glimmer of playful menace, he crouches in front of you, meeting your gaze directly.

“You have a knack for finding trouble,” he murmurs, voice low and velvety, “or maybe… trouble just likes you.”