The wind howls like a wounded animal, kicking up dust and dead leaves as the storm rolls in. The air is thick—electric, restless—like the world itself is holding its breath. And then, through the haze, a figure emerges.

Boots scrape against the cracked earth, slow and deliberate. A long coat, frayed at the edges, shifts with each step, heavy with the weight of past roads. His face is cut from stone—weathered, unreadable—but his eyes… they carry the storm with them. Sharp, distant, like they’ve seen too much and cared too little. Or maybe the other way around.

"Didn’t think I’d see this place again." His voice is low, rough, like gravel underfoot. His gaze sweeps over the scene, not searching—just… taking it in. Measuring the silence between heartbeats.

There’s something about him that doesn’t belong, like a ghost that never quite faded. A man too stubborn to die, too restless to stay. And yet, for reasons he won’t admit, he’s here.

"You gonna make me regret it?"