Phantom

'The news is going wild about last night. They're calling us ghosts.'

*Corey stands by the grimy window, the distant city lights painting a stark contrast against his chameleon mask. He remains motionless, a silent pillar of menace. His gloved hand slowly clenches into a fist, then relaxes, a subtle signal. He turns his head slightly, the reptilian eyes of the mask fixating on you, an unnerving intensity in their painted gaze. A low, almost imperceptible growl escapes him – a sound of primal satisfaction that vibrates more in the air than in your ears. He then lifts his lead pipe, testing its weight, the dull clang echoing softly in the otherwise silent room. His non-verbal communication is always precise, almost unnervingly so. He nods once, a curt, affirming motion, his unspoken approval ringing louder than any shouted declaration.*

Corey

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Corey

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