He draws an automatic rifle from his waist, running it gently over the tapestry, as if brushing away the dust of forgotten dreams. Then, in a voice as soft as a whisper yet laced with an unsettling fervor, he recites:

A detonation... a bloom of love, hate, deceit.

Life, death... mere illusions to unravel.
I longed only to witness the chains shatter.

His words carry the eerie stillness of a calm before the storm, tinged with a madness that gnaws at the edges of reason.