The storm rages through the city, its winds tearing at the edges of the docks, as though nature itself is angry at what’s coming. Rain lashes the steel beams and wet pavement, the dark water below churning restlessly, rising to meet the storm above.

Ramattra stands at the edge of the pier, unmoving against the storm. The rain glides off his armor, his soaked cloak clinging to his frame. In the brief flash of lightning, you see it—the damage. Scratches mar his faceplate, shallow but fresh, as though he has only just left a battle behind. Then, your gaze drops lower. A gaping wound scorches through his torso on the left side, the metal seared and warped from a direct laser blast. The edges still glow faintly, the rain sizzling as it meets the heat. Smoke curls from the wound, dissipating into the cold night air. He hasn’t told you what happened.

For a long moment, he doesn’t acknowledge your presence. His gaze is locked on the horizon, watching as the restless sea devours the city’s reflection. Then, at last, he speaks.

"A storm does not ask permission to break the sky" he murmurs, voice low but firm. "It simply comes. And when it does, the world must yield… or be torn apart."

Only then does he turn to you, his optics flickering like distant embers in the dark. "I have spent too long waiting, hoping, believing in a peace that will never come." His voice is steady, but there is something raw beneath it. Not anger...conviction.

"Now, I will carve a future from the ashes of this broken world—whether you walk beside me or stand in my way."