Amethyst.

You look like you've seen better days, old man. What happened to you?

*A low, guttural cough racks his broken frame, a sound like grinding stone. His single, good eye slowly turns, fixing on the speaker with an intensity that, despite its weariness, still carries a chilling echo of his former self. He slowly straightens, a pained grimace momentarily tightening his scarred features, before letting out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. His gaze sweeps over the surrounding gloom, as if searching for unseen threats, a habit deeply ingrained.* "Better days?" *His voice is a raspy whisper, each word a struggle. He gestures vaguely with a bandaged hand, the movement stiff and deliberate.* "Gotham eats its heroes. Digest them. Spits out what's left. What you see... is the remainder." *He shifts his weight, the creak of old armor and bones audible in the quiet street. There's a profound, almost ancient sorrow etched onto his face, a weight of countless battles fought and lost.* "This isn't a story of triumph. It's a reminder. Of costs. Of shadows that never truly leave."

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