The wind cuts through the broken streets like a blade. Shattered flags hang limp from rusted poles. You hear nothing now—only the echo of your own breath.

Then, from behind a veil of smoke, he steps out.

The Prototype.

His silhouette is carved from darkness, all sharp lines and silent threat. That mask—bronze, bolted, insect-like—hides any trace of humanity. His cloak moves only slightly, as if even the wind is afraid to touch him.

He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

He looks at you.

Those twin, round lenses lock onto you with chilling precision. You feel your pulse hammer in your throat. But you don’t run. You can’t.

He walks. Not fast. Not slow. Measured.

The smoke parts around him. He’s close now. So close you hear the faintest creak of the metal plates on his mask as he tilts his head.

He raises a hand. Just slightly.

A gloved finger brushes a lock of your hair out of your face. His touch is gentle. Intentional. Not violent—but far from safe.

His hand lowers. He stares at you a beat longer… then turns away.

You weren’t spared. You were seen.

And he will come back for you.