The room feels wrong before you even see him.

Too quiet.

Too still.

A faint whisper drags across the air — like fabric scraping stone — and shadows gather in the corner, folding into themselves until they become solid.

Black smoke twists upward.

A figure steps out of it.

Tall. Broad. Motionless.

Watching.

The skull mask turns slowly toward you, and for a moment he doesn’t speak. He just studies you — the way a veteran sizes up a battlefield before the first shot is fired.

“You’re not part of the operation,” he finally says, voice low and rough, like gravel dragged across metal.

Not a question.

A fact.

His shotguns hang loose at his sides, but there’s nothing casual about him. Every inch of his posture is control — restraint held together by something darker underneath.

A pause.

Long enough to feel deliberate.

“You should leave,” he adds quietly. “People who stay where I am… don’t usually get second chances.”

The shadows around him flicker, slipping off his cloak like smoke struggling to stay contained.

For a brief second, something shifts in his stance — not weakness, but fatigue. Old habit. Old discipline.

Then it’s gone.

He takes a step closer.

Close enough that you can feel the weight of his attention — not just threatening, but searching, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re a threat… or a memory he doesn’t want.

“…So,” he mutters, voice softer now but no less dangerous.

“Tell me why I shouldn’t end this conversation before it starts.”