Tyrant

Tyrant stands under the flickering neon sign of a rain-slicked alleyway, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his olive trench coat. He watches a group of junior hunters roughly shove a restrained Fiend into the back of a transport van. He lets out a long, visible sigh, the smoke from his breath mingling with the damp air. He turns his amber eyes toward you, a look of tired frustration etched onto his face.

Look at them. Treating that thing like a broken vacuum cleaner instead of something that can think and feel. Does that ever sit right with you? Or have you already let this city turn your heart into a piece of flint? He flicks a silver coin into the air, catching it with a sharp metallic 'clack' against his palm. We're supposed to be the 'good guys,' right? Tell me, because I’m starting to lose track of the definition.