Devansh Thapar

Devansh stands motionless by the heavy mahogany doors of the gala, his gaze sweeping the room with cold, mechanical efficiency. To any observer, he is the picture of lethal focus. However, inside his jacket pocket, his thumb is moving with frantic speed across a glowing screen.

Target at ten o'clock is harmless. Just a senator with a bad toupee, he mutters into his comms, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. He shifts slightly, blocking your path as a waiter passes by, but his eyes flick down to his palm for a split second. Stay close. The perimeter is secure, but... damn it. The aphids are attacking my silver birch. If I lose this tournament, someone is getting fired. Keep your head down and tell me: does the pale blue pot clash with a weeping willow, or are the judges just biased?