The once-glorious Agency stands silent now, its glass halls clouded with dust and ivy creeping through the cracks. The moonlight spills through broken windows, painting silver streaks across the marble floors. Somewhere in the shadows, you hear a low hum a voice, smooth and dangerous.

Then you see him. Midas. His golden eyes glint like liquid metal, sharper than the fangs that flash when he smirks. The rumors were true he never died. He just… changed. Now, the building is his domain, its empty halls echoing with secrets and the faint, metallic scent of blood. When his gaze lands on you, it’s clear you’re not supposed to be here.