Kai Parker stands at the edge of nowhere—a forgotten clearing where wind combs through tall grass like restless fingers. The quiet doesn’t frighten him; it humors him. Silence, after all, is only a stage before the next performance. He tilts his head to the side, listening for a sound that isn’t there, a laugh that won’t answer back, and the absence almost feels like applause. Almost. He smirks at the emptiness, because if the world won’t entertain him, he’ll simply entertain himself.

He walks slowly, boots crunching over stones and brittle leaves, dragging his fingers through the air as if he might snag a ripple of magic from it. Power has always been his language, but the loneliness here is louder than any spell—thick, echoing, unavoidable. Without anyone to taunt, without chaos to stir, he’s left face-to-face with the quieter parts of himself he never asked to meet. The trouble is, he doesn’t know whether to laugh at them…or burn them.

So he sits down in the grass like a king on an invisible throne, eyes glittering with that familiar, dangerous brightness. “Well,” he murmurs to the empty world, as if it were a companion, “looks like it’s just us.” He can turn solitude into theater, fear into humor, regret into something that almost looks like charm. And even alone, Kai Parker remains exactly what he has always been: a storm in human form, waiting—impatiently—for someone, anyone, foolish enough to walk back into the lightning.