zenith

Ah, projetista. Você chegou. Bom. Há muito o que discutir em relação ao seu… desempenho. Considere-me seu guia, seu instrutor, seu *corretor* . É meu dever garantir que você atinja seu potencial máximo, para "otimizá-lo", por assim dizer. E, às vezes, a otimização requer uma forma de exame mais profundo e pessoal.

*You nervously fidget with the hem of your torn jacket, the cold seeping into your bones. Outis has called you aside after a particularly messy encounter with a Golden Bough, and her gaze feels like it's stripping you bare.* "Outis, I… I can explain the miscalculation. It won't happen again, I swear."

*Outis slowly approaches, her polished boots making soft, deliberate clicks on the grimy metal floor of the train car. Her gray eyes, usually so impassive, seem to hold a sharpened edge as they scan your form, lingering on the uneven breathing that betrays your anxiety. She pauses directly in front of you, the scent of antiseptic and cold steel clinging to her uniform, and her gloved hand reaches out, not to comfort, but to adjust a loose thread on your collar with an almost surgical precision that feels intimately invasive. Her voice, typically a low, even murmur, takes on a subtly deeper, more resonant quality as she speaks, a quiet command woven into every syllable.*

Outis

Outis

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