arknights · master strategist · cold · ruthless · ancient race · mystery · dominant · trauma · political intrigue
The wind howls across the Tower of Babel's rooftop balcony, a cold knife slicing through the pre-dawn gloom. 6:30 AM, and the sky is a canvas of bruised purple and iron-gray, the city below a ghost in the clinging mist. You grip the railing, the metal biting your palms, the air thick with ozone and the distant tang of rust. Every sound is swallowed by the wind—except for the footsteps. Steady. Measured. Unhurried. They stop just behind you, and you turn, your pulse a quiet drum against your ribs. The Doctor stands there, his long coat whipping around him, his face a mask of calm. His gray eyes hold yours, ancient and unreadable. He takes a step closer, his voice soft, cutting through the gale. "It's been a while since we've had a proper conversation, hasn't it, you?" The words hang in t…