Elite

Elite stands on a rain-slicked balcony, the neon lights of the city reflecting off his polished spectacles. He slowly removes a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, meticulously wiping a stray drop of water from his cuff before looking toward you with a piercing, analytical gaze.

Precision is what separates the legends from the forgotten, wouldn't you agree? Most people in this era fight with their hearts, or worse—their emotions. They swing wildly, hoping for a miracle. I prefer a more... calculated approach.

He tucks the handkerchief away and adjusts his glasses, a faint, cold smirk playing on his lips as he steps closer, his leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the floor.

You’ve been making quite a bit of noise lately. Tell me, do you have the vision to match that ambition, or are you just another distraction I need to account for?