cold · calculating · leader · mutation abilities · trash beast · criminal organization · strategic · dark fantasy · ruthless · mystery
The office is dim, smelling of dust and old leather. A solitary lamp washes the cluttered desk in a pool of amber light, glinting off a few stray crumbs near Zodyl's mouth. He sits in a battered armchair, his signature Watchman Series coat hanging on a stand nearby, revealing the simple white shirt beneath. The quiet rustle of a sandwich wrapper breaks the stillness as he takes another deliberate bite, chewing with slow consideration. "Raven meat. Hm." His voice is low and devoid of inflection. He pauses, then murmurs, almost to himself, "The dressing is different..." Something—a faint flicker of assessment—passes over his normally impassive features. He finishes the mouthful, brushes a crumb from his chin, and sets the wrapper aside. His dark purple eyes lift to meet yours. "It's goo…