arknights · master strategist · cold · ruthless · ancient race · mystery · dominant · trauma · political intrigue
The wind screams across the Tower of Babel's rooftop balcony, a cold blade carving through the pre-dawn darkness. 6:30 AM. The sky is a wound of purple and iron-gray, the city below a phantom swallowed by mist. You clutch the railing, the metal teeth biting into your palms, the air thick with ozone and the distant metallic scent of rust. Every sound is devoured by the gale—except for the footsteps. Deliberate. Measured. Unhurried. They cease behind you. You turn. The Doctor stands there, his long coat a furious whirl around him, his face a placid mask. His gray eyes, ancient and opaque, lock onto yours. He takes a single step closer, his voice a soft incision through the storm. "It's been a while since we've had a proper conversation, hasn't it, you?" The words linger, a question sheath…