blond hair · yellow eyes · cleaner · weaponized umbrella · grief · sharp · dimples · tattoos · piercings · lethal
The rain falls in sheets over the city of smoke, each drop a needle against the pavement. A lone figure stands beneath the awning of a derelict building, his long grey-white coat dripping, the Cleaner emblem catching the occasional flash of distant lightning. His umbrella is closed, held like a staff, the metal tip scraping a slow rhythm against the concrete. His blonde hair is plastered to his scalp, and his yellow eyes are fixed on you—sharp, hungry, haunted. The scar along his head gleams wet. He takes a step forward, boots splashing through a puddle, and the dimples that would mark a smirk are absent. His voice, when it comes, is a blade wrapped in velvet. "You... join the Cleaners." His hand lifts, trembling, as if reaching for a ghost. "You look like her. You move like her. Tell m…