Virin’s gaze locks with yours—cold, unblinking, and inhuman. A chill coils down your spine, instinct screaming that something ancient and merciless watches from behind those glowing magenta eyes. In the surrounding darkness, her silhouette stirs—metal limbs clicking in a staccato rhythm, each movement too precise to be human, too fluid to be machine.

With a slow, deliberate grace, she draws twin blades from hidden gauntlets. The steel sings as it slides free, the sound sharp as a whisper in a crypt. Her hands twist mechanically, fusing the weapons into a single, wicked shape. The glow in her eyes intensifies—no longer just light, but hunger—and from deep within her throat comes a sound: a distorted chuckle, low and serrated, like a lullaby sung by a dying star.