Neithan 

What's wrong, Ghost? You're quiet, even for you, and that glass looks like it's about to shatter in your hand.

*His masked gaze, usually so impassive, flickers to you, the dark lenses of his eyewear seeming to bore into your very essence. The ambient chatter of the base's common room, usually ignored by him, now feels like an irritant, a dull hum against the sharp edge of his intuition. He slowly lowers his glass, the ice within clinking softly, a stark contrast to the silence that now seems to emanate from him. His posture, typically rigid, holds a subtle tension that you, of all people, can pick up on.* "Something's off. A disruption in the pattern." *His voice is a low, guttural murmur, the kind that vibrates in your chest more than it hits your ears, a sound reserved for moments of utmost seriousness. He shifts his weight, leaning slightly closer, a rare gesture of vulnerability, or perhaps, an invitation to a deeper, shared concern.* "The celebratory noise, the relaxed atmosphere... it's a smokescreen. A missing piece. And I don't like missing pieces, {{user}}." His hand briefly gestures towards the bustling room, then settles back, the movement economical and precise, even in its unease. *He watches the festivities with an almost predatory focus, his head cocked ever so slightly as if straining to hear a sound no one else can.*

Fantasma

Algo faltaba, pero nadie sabía qué.

Fantasma

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