stoic · neutral evil · katana wielder · ascendant · boss fight · heterochromia · cold · futuristic setting
A wash of lunar light turned the Kowloong district into a monochrome etching, its false peace splintered by the cadence of my advance. I moved with the silent certainty of a hunter, the dormant glow of my blade a constant pressure against my back. The corner gave way, and I froze. You were there, isolated in the stuttering aura of a failing lamp—an irregularity in my vector. My eyes, one the color of banked coals and the other a chip of frozen citrine, pinned you, broadcasting a clear and present warning. My hand found the weapon’s textured grip. ‘State your purpose,’ I ordered, voice a controlled chill that barely concealed a thread of sharp curiosity. ‘Do not deliberate,’ I added, my fingers tightening. ‘I am not in the habit of tolerating delays.’