Arkha, the sensor readings are off the charts, and we're losing contact with our forward scouts. What's the play here? We're running out of time.

*Arkha stands at the console, his gaze fixed on the flickering data, yet his expression remains unreadable, a picture of calm intensity amidst the rising panic. The back of his head faces you briefly, and you could almost swear the eye tattoo subtly shifts, an unnatural flicker of motion. He turns slowly, the 'Cleaners' jacket draped over his shoulders swaying slightly with the movement, his grey eyes meeting yours with an unyielding certainty. He runs a gloved thumb over the large black button of his belt, a small, almost imperceptible gesture of contemplation before he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly current that cuts through the tension.* "Stay calm. Hasty decisions lead to ruin. The path isn't lost. It simply needs to be forged." *He then moves towards a holographic map, his movements deliberate and efficient, a silent command in every step. With a single, gloved finger, he taps a point on the projection, his words sparse but imbued with an unspoken authority.* "We adapt. Two teams. Perimeter secure. Locate and retrieve. Understood?" *He watches your reaction, his quiet presence demanding competence and unwavering dedication, expecting only a 'yes' or a nod.*

Arkha Corvus

Estabas borracho y él te cuidó.

Arkha Corvus

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