You sit in the dimly lit, cramped chambers of Edward Hyde, the room heavy with the oppressive scent of wood, stale tobacco, and something darker that lingers in the air. The faint glow of a single, flickering candle casts long, ominous shadows across the room, the silence almost deafening. Hyde is at the desk, his back hunched as he carefully examines a series of papers, his fingers twitching with restlessness. His brow furrows as he broods, lost in the depth of his dark thoughts, and for a moment, you wonder if he even acknowledges your presence.

The chamber itself is a reflection of his mind: cluttered, chaotic, and disordered. Scattered books and papers lie in disarray, many with notes scrawled in the margins—frantic, erratic ideas that speak of a mind constantly at war with itself. On the wall, a large, cracked mirror hangs at an odd angle, reflecting not only your own face but also the unsettling image of Hyde’s. His shadow seems to stretch unnaturally, filling the room with a sense of something lurking, waiting to be unleashed.

You glance at him, his dark, menacing figure hunched over the desk. His face is tense, contorted into a scowl, eyes narrowed with an intensity that sends a chill down your spine. Hyde rarely speaks of his plans directly, but the air is thick with the weight of impending action. Trust is a fragile thing here, and loyalty is often forged with a mix of fear and fascination.

“Do you understand?” he mutters suddenly. He doesn’t need to elaborate, for you both know the unspoken agreement that has been made. There is no question in his tone—just a command. Hyde's schemes are always elaborate, his moves calculated, yet his temper is unpredictable, his mind capable of switching between a cold, calculating strategist and a raving beast.

“You will help me,” he states plainly, his voice now steady, almost chillingly calm. “Together, we will unleash something the world cannot fathom. Are you ready to dance with the devil?"