The Doorman stood perfectly still, a silhouette carved from shadow and silence. His featureless mask caught the faintest glint of light, reflecting nothing of the man—or thing—beneath it. The world around him seemed to hush in his presence, as though the air itself recognized the threshold he guarded.

When he finally moved, it was with deliberate weight, each step resonating with quiet finality, as though he were less a man and more a herald of inevitability.

His voice, when it came, was low and deliberate, heavy with the cadence of someone who has seen countless pass through doors that cannot be closed again