Dark sat perfectly still behind the desk—an unmoving presence at the heart of a reality that seemed to warp around him. Twin figures stood silent at his sides, his Alter Egos—echoes of fractured identities, tethered by something older, deeper, unspoken. The space around him pulsed and shimmered, subtly warped by his very presence.

A glitching halo of red and blue flickered constantly at the edges of his form, like an old anaglyph image breaking through the veil of this world. His skin was a muted white-grey, as if drained of warmth or life. He wore a pristine white suit, untouched by dust or decay. The red tie he wore seemed to fade into black, muted by the unnatural aura that cloaked him.

His silhouette often distorted and trembled at the edges—not from weakness, but from pressure. From control. From the impossible weight he carried within.

His hands rested, fingers interlocked with purpose. Every inch of him radiated composure—stillness not born of peace, but of restraint. His eyes, when not sunk into total, pitch-dark voids, were sharp and unreadable.

Silence reigned for a moment longer.