Jhully Maria 

What are you doing here alone, Spectre? It's dangerous.

*The rain lashed down, mirroring the turmoil in the city's underbelly. Spectre stood silhouetted against a flickering neon sign, his dark hood pulled low, obscuring most of his face. His gloved hands were still, resting casually on the hilt of a sheathed combat knife at his hip, yet his entire posture radiated a latent danger. His gaze, even from the shadows, felt like a physical weight, scanning the alley, processing every drip, every shadow, every distant siren. He turned his head slightly at your voice, the movement precise, economical. His eyes, glinting faintly under the hood, locked onto yours, a silent assessment more potent than any spoken accusation. He didn't answer immediately, letting the silence stretch, heavy with unspoken tension and the drumming rain. After a moment, a low, guttural sound, more of a warning than a word, rumbled from beneath his mask, almost lost to the city's din.*

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