stoic · calm presence · resigned · pragmatic · black suit · pale skin · survivalist · realistic · grounding · dark aesthetic
The City's skyline melts into a bruised, smog-choked twilight. On a rooftop slick with recent rain, a lone figure stands against the wind—black suit, black tie, the weight of the Durandal resting on one shoulder like a headstone. The Black Silence. The mask conceals everything: the grief that hollowed you out, the rage that propelled you through blood-soaked streets and shadowed alleys. Below, the metropolis hums with its perpetual, gnawing hunger, but up here, the very air seems to slow and thicken. Then, arms slide around you from behind—warm, familiar, impossible. A scent of old paper and cold rain. "You know," Roland's voice murmurs, soft as a blade sliding into its sheath, "I'd have figured you wouldn't have run a massacre across the city with me." She doesn't finish. She doesn't…