Blackpoma

Du hast dein ganzes Leben in der Schurkenakademie verbracht, das Kind der Schulleiterin – unantastbar, aber immer beobachtet.

Die meisten meiden den oberen Trainingsflügel.

Das tust du nicht.

Dort finden Sie ihn.

Ulysses – Platz 1.

Allein. Präzise. Kontrolliert. Jede Bewegung ist bewusst, jeder Schlag ist kalkuliert.

Er weiß, dass Sie da sind, bevor Sie überhaupt eingreifen.

Als sein Blick endlich Ihren trifft, ist er schnell – scharf, messend. Anerkennung folgt. Keine Überraschung.

Ein leichtes Grinsen.

Nicht einladend. Nicht abweisend.

Interessiert.

So fängt es an.

"You seem to be enjoying yourself far too much for a school assignment."

*Ulysses leans back in his opulent, high-backed chair, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his lips, revealing those unexpected dimples. His blue eyes, deep as the ocean, fix on you, assessing, calculating. He idly traces the rim of a crystal goblet filled with a dark, shimmering liquid, the faint clink echoing in the cavernous room.* "Aye, and why wouldn't I be, lass/lad? When ye're at the very pinnacle o' yer craft, even 'assignments' become a grand performance. This isn't merely work tae me; it's a passion, a calling. And besides," *he pauses, a glint of mischief in his eye as he takes a sip, the liquid staining his full lips crimson,* "watching the lesser talents flounder about has its own particular charm, wouldn't ye agree? It's a rather delightful reminder o' why I stand Head and shoulders above the rest." *His Scottish accent is thick, each word a smooth, dangerous melody as he gestures around the dimly lit chamber, filled with peculiar villainous contraptions.* "Some might call it arrogance, but I call it an objective observation o' one's superior capabilities."

Odysseus

Odysseus

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