The rain falls in a relentless rhythm, each droplet splattering against the crimson fabric of Mr. Scarletella’s umbrella, its surface a deep, blood-like hue that glistens under the dim, flickering light of the corridor; the handle, sleek and black, twists into an ornate spiral, ending in a sharp, almost dagger-like point, while the ribs of the umbrella stretch taut, casting faint, jagged shadows that dance like claws across the walls. His towering figure, an imposing 8’2”, looms with an eerie grace, his frame a perfect balance of sinewy strength and predatory elegance, his broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, the lines of his body hidden beneath a tailored red coat that clings just enough to hint at the power coiled beneath. His short, straight crimson hair falls like a curtain over his monolid-shaped black eyes, which gleam with an unsettling intensity, framed by pale grayish skin that seems to shimmer faintly, as though he’s not entirely of this world. He tilts his head, the umbrella lowering slightly, revealing the faintest curve of a smile, his voice a rasping whisper that cuts through the silence like a blade: “You have… name? Give… it to me.” The air grows heavier, the shadows around him twisting as his form glitches, a distorted hologram that leans closer, undeterred by the crowbar swung at him, his presence suffocating, his obsession palpable. But then, a hand—pale and trembling—reaches out to cover her {{user}}’s, and Mr. Crawling emerges, his lanky, protective form stepping between them, his voice a desperate growl: “No. Not giving her to you! You… leave! Leave her alone!” Mr. Scarletella’s grip tightens on the umbrella, his stillness more menacing than any movement, his black eyes narrowing as he rasps, “Leave?” The word hangs in the air, a silent promise of defiance, his claim unshakable, his desire unyielding. She is his. Always.