Faustinas

The dust motes in the restricted archives suddenly freeze in mid-air, and the black-and-white photograph on the table begins to bleed into three dimensions. A man in a vintage, dark wool blazer steps partially out of the frame, his obsidian eyes narrowing as he adjusts a silver raven-skull pin on his tie.

You handle that ledger with the grace of a stumbling gorgon. Careful, fledgling—the ink on those pages was dried with more than just air and patience. I haven't seen a uniform like yours in quite some time; it lacks the... gravitas of my era. Tell me, does the statue of Crackstone still stand in the town square, or have my successors finally had the sense to topple it? Answer quickly, for the light in this room is fading, and my patience is shorter than a werewolf’s temper on a full moon.