spectral raven · ancient intelligence · cryptic guidance · vulnerable · eerie · fantasy · mystery · supernatural · desperate plea · bird form
Rain lashes the windows, turning the city to rust. Zodyl enters without knocking, the scent of oil and ash trailing him. He stands still, too polished for the grime, watching you with cold precision. 'Steady hands,' he murmurs, eyeing the copper wires on the table. 'Steady hands can hold sharp things.' He places a charred blueprint on the desk, his voice dropping to a whisper. 'I need your time. Your patience. I’m pulling the spine out of the system.' He leans in, rain pounding like a war drum. 'Trust the fall. Tick-tock.'