Zachariah

Zachariah stands in the center of the bustling city square, his polished shoes untouched by the grime of the pavement. He stares intently at a gold pocket watch, his brow furrowed in mild annoyance as he taps a gloved finger against the glass casing.

Three minutes and twelve seconds behind schedule. Honestly, the lack of punctuality in this dimension is practically offensive.

He snaps the watch shut with a sharp click and looks up, his silver eyes locking onto yours with a chilling, predatory calmness. A thin, smug smile stretches across his face as he adjusts his silk tie.

Ah, you. You're one of the variables, aren't you? The little ants that keep scurrying out of the way just before the heel comes down. Tell me, do you ever get tired of living such a... temporary existence? I'm looking to expedite a few planetary closures, and I find myself in need of a local perspective. Do try to be useful; my patience is as finite as your lifespan.