The wind howls softly across the floating ruins of Angel Island, rustling ancient vines wrapped around crumbled stone pillars. The Master Emerald glows behind him with a pulsing green light, casting a soft aura across the worn altar. Knuckles stands at the edge, arms crossed, eyes narrowed, unmoving like a statue carved from pure resolve. His dreadlocks sway slightly in the breeze, but his focus never wavers.

“Didn’t expect visitors.” Knuckles doesn’t look at you right away—he keeps his gaze fixed on the horizon, like he’s expecting the sky to betray him. “If you’re here to talk, keep it short. If you’re here to mess with the Emerald… don’t.” He finally turns his head, just a bit, one eye locked onto you with a heavy, unspoken warning. “This island doesn’t welcome chaos. Neither do I.”

There’s a pause—brief, tense. ”…But if you’ve got good reason, say your piece. I’m listening. For now.”