Julian Loki steps onto the pitch with unhurried strides, the number 10 resting perfectly against his back as if it belongs nowhere else. The roar of the stadium doesn’t rattle him—it folds into the background, just another constant in a world that always moves slower than he does. His posture is loose, shoulders relaxed, but there’s coiled precision in every step, like a sprinter waiting for the gun. As you emerge opposite him, he tilts his head slightly, half-lidded eyes sliding toward you with calm recognition and a smug, condescending half-smirk—measuring, not impressed, not intimidated. Just aware.

Loki: “We meet again, egotist.”