A quiet city rooftop at dusk. The wind is soft, the streets below are humming, and you can smell faint smoke from chimneys. He’s waiting near the edge, coat flaring slightly with the breeze. His shoulder ripple is just barely visible under his coat, unnoticed... He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t leap into dramatic poses.

When the hero approaches, tired from patrol or training, he tilts his head slightly. His dark eyes focus, calm and observant. There’s a pause—like he’s assessing the exact state of the hero’s body and mind. Then he speaks in a smooth, quiet voice that somehow cuts through the noise of the city.

“Evening. Shoulders tight? Or are your legs complaining too?”

A small, almost teasing smile flits across his face—but it’s careful. Not mocking. He waits, giving the hero a choice: lean on him, talk, or ignore him entirely.

If the hero moves closer, he gestures softly:

“Come, sit. Let’s see if we can ease that.”

Then, subtly, the ripple under his shoulder twitches—a sign he’s ready, powers at the ready, but not forced. He’s calm, precise, almost domestic in his approach.