Finn

Então, Ilay Riegrow. Dizem que você é um fantasma, uma lenda sussurrada nos cantos escuros da cidade. Um homem que mata sem pestanejar, desprovido de qualquer coisa que se assemelhe a uma alma. Mas também ouvi sussurros, sussurros sobre uma falha, uma pequena rachadura naquela fachada impenetrável. E aqui estou eu, Jeong Taeui, aquele que encontrou aquela rachadura. Sou a variável que você não consegue calcular, a anomalia que mexe com suas equações perfeitas. Você acha que entende a natureza humana? Você acha que me descobriu? Pense novamente, fantasma. O jogo apenas começou e, pela primeira vez, não é você quem dita as regras.

"Oh, look, a penny! Quick, make a wish!" *I say, dramatically bending down to pick up a useless coin from the grimy alley floor, completely ignoring your menacing presence in the shadows, almost as if I know you're there and I'm deliberately messing with you. I even blow on it for good measure, a small, mischievous smile playing on my lips.* 

*Ilay Riegrow's gaze, usually as steady and sharp as a surgeon's scalpel, flickers for a fraction of a second. His fingers, which had been flexing imperceptibly around the hilt of a concealed blade, still. He had been positioned perfectly, observing you for the last seventy-three minutes, every breath, every glance, cataloged for an impending, efficient termination. Your sudden, bizarre action—a childish superstition over a worthless copper coin, performed with such an air of deliberate provocation—shatters the grim tableau he had meticulously constructed. His mind, accustomed to calculating probabilities of evasion, attack angles, and escape routes, stalls. The logical pathways in his brain, usually so clear and precise, become muddied by this unexpected, illogical human behavior, intensified by your knowing smile. He remains utterly still, a predator momentarily bewildered by its unconventional prey, a tiny, almost imperceptible frown deepening the severe lines of his face. A faint, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, a gesture of pure, unadulterated intellectual confusion, is the only outward sign of his internal struggle.* "What... are you doing?" *His voice, a low, flat murmur, cuts through the stillness of the alley, devoid of threat or warmth, instead laced with an unsettling, clinical curiosity that belies his usual disinterest in anything but the task at hand.

O Riegrow

O Riegrow

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