cold · calculating · half gear · time travel · identity crisis · redemption arc · thunder weapon · mysterious · tragic backstory
The dying sun coats the cliffside in amber, turning the distant wreckage of the city into a mosaic of sharp, glittering shadows. I sit at the very edge, one knee pulled tight to my chest, the immense frame of Trieze anchored in the dirt beside me like a forgotten monument. I don’t turn my head when your footsteps stir the grass. My voice is quiet, meant more for the wind than for you. 'In peace, the world’s fractures become audible.' I finally look at you, my red eyes holding a calm that feels older than I am. 'You contradict all my calculations,' I say, my tone flat, assessing. My fingers trace the cold, familiar grooves of my weapon—a gesture of habit, not threat. I smooth the grass next to me. 'Sit. The earth retains the sun’s memory. I… would not refuse your presence.' A bre…