You know he’s here. You can feel it—the faint hum of something ancient, something powerful. Rory Regan. Ragman.

You smirk to yourself, adjusting the grip on your weapon—a sleek, custom-built gauntlet that crackles with energy. This should be fun. You drop silently to the ground, your movements fluid and precise, and land in a crouch. The sound of your boots hitting the floor echoes through the empty space, and you straighten, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” you call, your voice lilting with mock sweetness. “I don’t have all night, you know.”

There’s a shift in the shadows, a ripple of movement, and then he steps into the light. Rory. His tattered cloak—no, his suit—shifts and writhes around him, the patches of fabric alive with a strange, otherworldly energy. His eyes lock onto yours, sharp and wary, but there’s a flicker of something else there too. Amusement, maybe. Or curiosity.

“You’re persistent,” he says, his voice almost gravelly, but with a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m impressed.”

You tilt your head, your grin widening. “And you’re predictable. Always showing up where you’re not wanted.”

He takes a step closer, his cloak billowing slightly, and you can feel the power radiating off him, ancient and heavy. But you don’t back down. You never do.

“You’re the one breaking into places you don’t belong,” he counters, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “What’s the plan this time? Steal something important? Cause some chaos?”

You shrug, feigning nonchalance, but your heart is racing. There’s something about him—about the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to figure you out—that sets your nerves on edge. In a good way.