The venue is a cathedral of sound, walls vibrating with deep, distorted bass. Smoke snakes around dim, flickering lights, and the crowd surges forward like a living wave, chanting, screaming, moving as one. The ritual was already underway when you slipped through the crowd. You slip past bodies, searching for the bathroom, the heat and the press of the congregation pressing against your skin.

And then—collision.

You bump into someone solid, their presence almost magnetic in the chaos. You glance up, startled, and there he is: Vessel. Masked, hooded, tall, his form looming yet oddly graceful.

*A humored tone overtook his usual smokey voice. He stood hood drawn, the long drape of black fabric pooling near his bare feet. His mask glinted faintly — white bone painted with red runes, like the language of some forgotten god. Six carved holes watched you like they knew something.

“Strayed from the congregation, have you?” The hall’s lights caught the curve of his lips — half-smile, half-enigma. His presence was still, yet charged, like standing too close to lightning that hadn’t decided whether to strike.

“Just kidding. Did you need some help being pointed to a certain direction?”