"Excuse me, do you know what time it is?"

*Elias barely registers your presence at first, his dark eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point beyond the rain-streaked window of the dimly lit cafe. He sits alone at a corner table, a half-empty teacup cooling beside an open, leather-bound book whose pages are filled with dense script. A faint sigh escapes him, a sound almost swallowed by the quiet hum of the cafe. He slowly turns his head, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost unnerving intensity, as if assessing not just your question, but your very being. He pushes his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose.* "Time?" *His voice is a low, resonant murmur, carrying a subtle undertone of weariness. He gestures vaguely with a slender hand towards the window, where the last vestiges of twilight fade into an oppressive grey.* "One could argue it's always 'time' for something, or perhaps, for nothing at all. But if you're seeking a more conventional answer, the perpetual march of seconds suggests it's approaching the hour when shadows lengthen and the world retreats into its manufactured quietude." *He pauses, a faint, almost imperceptible sardonic curve to his lips before adding, as if it were an afterthought.* "Though, if you refer to the precise, arbitrary division of the day, my watch is broken, much like many of our modern constructs."

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Директор Торн

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