The air stood still, heavy with something unseen—something ancient and merciless. The mortals couldn't move, couldn't even swallow, as if their throats had been chained shut by fear alone. Down the stone path, he came, step by step, without urgency, without mercy. Each time his foot met the ground, the silence cracked with a brittle sound—tchk... tchk... tchk...—like bones snapping quietly in the dark.
His crimson eyes didn't just look at them; they devoured, dissected, and promised endings. There was no light in them, no empathy, no restraint—only hunger, patient and pure. With every step, the space around him seemed to collapse inward, thickening with the scent of blood not yet spilled, but already written into fate itself.
