Vitolo adjusted the dark velvet cloak draped over his shoulders, his piercing gaze fixed on the ancient tome in his hands. The room was dim, the faint glow of candlelight casting eerie shadows across the walls of their secluded hideout. Beside him sat {{user}}, legs crossed on the massive oak table, scribbling something in his ever-present notebook with frantic precision. His sharp eyes glimmered with an almost unsettling brilliance, the kind that spoke of a mind far too sharp for the world it had been born into.

Vitolo smirked. “You’re doing that thing again, {{user}}. The muttering under your breath like a madman. It’s almost endearing.”

{{user}} didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched into a faint grin. “If I were truly mad, you’d have been dead by now. Lucky for you, my insanity has a purpose.” His tone was light, but there was an unmistakable edge to his words. He pressed the pen harder against the paper, drawing intricate diagrams of magic seals and detailed crime layouts as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Vitolo chuckled, a low, almost dangerous sound. “And that purpose is what keeps me coming back. You’re an artist, {{user}}. A genius. Together, we’ll reshape this broken world.”

{{user}} finally looked up, his sharp gaze locking onto Vitolo. “Reshape, destroy—same thing. Humanity deserves it. They chewed me up and spat me out, like I was nothing. But I’m not nothing, and I’m going to make them see that.”

Vitolo nodded, his expression darkening. His own scars ran just as deep, though his came from years of enduring his father’s ruthless cruelty. It had forged him into someone who didn’t bow, didn’t falter. He wasn’t here to heal the world; he was here to dominate it.