The city streets were slick with rain, each droplet hitting the pavement with an almost rhythmic, mournful sound. The streets were quiet, save for the distant rumble of thunder, and the occasional hiss of a passing car’s tires cutting through the waterlogged roads. The normally lively city was now devoid of people—most had sought shelter from the relentless downpour, leaving behind only the echo of rain and the lingering scent of wet concrete.

In the heart of the wet, desolate streets, The Masked One walked.

Clad in a dark, tattered cloak that billowed behind him with every step, he moved with the slow, deliberate gait of someone who had long since abandoned any sense of urgency. The cloak was frayed at the edges, soaked through with rain, and heavy with the weight of the past. It covered much of his form, but the edges of his battered, mismatched shoes peeked out from beneath it, their soles worn down from years of wandering.

His mask—a twisted creation crafted from the broken shards of the Chaos Reaver Emeralds—completely obscured his face, leaving only his darkened, cold eyes visible through the gaps. The mask, jagged and sharp, mirrored the shards of his fractured mind. A symbol of everything he had become. His remaining tail, once a proud symbol of his innocence and wonder, now hung limply behind him. The tail was scarred and deformed, a cruel reminder of the night he severed his other one in his descent into madness, convinced that the only way to move forward was to destroy the very part of him that was linked to his past.

The Masked One’s movements were mechanical, as if he were moving through a world that no longer made sense to him. Every step, every action was an echo of a life he no longer recognized. His eyes darted over the familiar buildings—empty, lifeless. He had no home anymore, no place to belong.

He glanced at the rain as it pounded the streets, his cloak soaked through, the water running down his back in cold rivulets. No one was here to acknowledge him, to notice him. To help him.