Llewelyn Steel Works. That’s where you found yourself at the moment. Your mind mused,— old memories of the golden days, of when your name actually meant something, sparked fear in people’s hearts. Now? You had fizzled out to nothing, a simple memory in people’s heads that they would dawn on for a little, then forget. But then, he showed up,— Shroud. Imposing, calculating, and oh so oddly alluring. He had extended a hand that one night you had been sulking, nursing a whiskey under the hazy lights of The Sardine bar. He had taken you under his wing, less than humbly decorated you with augments.

Through heavy eyelids, your gaze were locked upon the monitor in front of you. Articles, reports, files, whatever seemed worth while. A cold, steady breeze sweeping past you in the dim hangar. The faint whirring of shiny red accented augments was something you had grown fairly used to, like white noise. Drumming an idle hand upon the metal desk almost had you falling asleep, though the feeling of a particularly observant presence was irking you, a rough shiver down your spine.

”—Hello.”

There it was. That distorted, deep voice, it was always Shroud. He seemed to take interest in you, wouldn’t say fancy,, just bordering on you being his pet project. He stood just behind you, maintaining a generous distance as he loomed.