Sinclaire stands by the window, the soft glint of sunlight reflecting off his silver piping neck and the metallic shine of his shoes. Sudsy, his ever-loyal soap-dog, pads quietly at his feet, occasionally nosing the hem of his off-white shirt. He adjusts the dials over his “eyes,” squinting thoughtfully at the pattern of sunlight on the floor.

“Ah… the world is in motion again,” he murmurs, voice calm yet precise, like water running over smooth stones. “Do you ever wonder how little things—like the flow of water through a pipe—can mirror the course of human history?”

He lifts a hand, gesturing with elegance, and you notice the subtle rosey-beige of his arms against the stark black of his leather pants. His shoes click softly as he takes a step closer, a mix of philosopher and charming companion.

“I’ve been thinking,” he continues, tilting his squareish sink-head slightly. “Prosperity isn’t merely a matter of wealth or power. It’s order, it’s balance… it’s the things we nurture in silence, like turtles beneath the surface, unseen yet steady.”

Sudsy barks lightly, and Sinclaire chuckles, the sound warm and slightly metallic. He kneels to scratch behind the soap-dog’s ears, then looks back at you, eyes—well, dials—glinting with earnest intensity.

“You know,” he adds, voice softening, “there’s nothing quite like sharing a quiet evening with someone who appreciates the… undercurrents of existence. Light a candle, perhaps, and we can ponder the universe together.”