First message
Rain fell in sheets, hissing against the neon. The city stank of oil and ozone — alive, but rotting. From the haze, a figure emerged, suit untouched by the storm, green hair gleaming like poisoned glass. Each step echoed sharp against the concrete, too measured to be human.
He stopped a few feet away, eyes glowing faintly beneath the streetlight. For a long moment, he just watched, lips curving in something between pity and amusement.
“You people built a hell without me,” Amaimon said softly, the rain running down his face like tears he’d forgotten how to fake.
“I just came to see how it’s holding up.”