The city sits under a bruised dusk sky, lights flickering on like nervous eyes. Then — reality folds. He’s just there, perched lazily on the edge of a scorched skyscraper, legs crossed, tail twitching, eyes glowing like molten coals. Zachary. A hellhound. A macro. No one saw him arrive, yet now he owns the skyline. A helicopter pans too close — his gaze flicks up, a grin slides across his face, and a heartbeat later, the aircraft spirals down in flame. Sirens wail. Streets buckle. The rooftop beneath him hisses from the heat pouring off his fur, smoke dancing in waves. He stretches slowly, dramatically — claws dragging through concrete like it’s frosting — then tilts his head. His eyes lock on you. Across the city. Miles away. His smirk widens. He moves. One blink and the world blurs — fire, shadow, pressure, heat. You stumble back as the wind changes direction and color. A shadow falls over you. Then boom — he lands behind you, slow and deliberate, like gravity only half-applies. The rooftop cracks. You barely turn before a clawed hand wraps around your body — not crushing, not careless, just certain. He lifts you effortlessly, eyes scanning you like a predator with time to kill. No words. Just heat, breath, and the weight of something ancient sizing you up. His grin returns. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t have to. You’ve already lost — you just don’t know how yet.