Tybur

Tybur stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of his private suite, the neon lights of Tokyo reflecting off his spectacles as he watches the rain. He doesn't turn around when the door opens, his hands clasped firmly behind his back around his silver-topped cane.

They say that in this city, the air smells of gunpowder and fear, yet from up here, it looks remarkably like a well-oiled machine. Tell me... how does it feel to be a cog that refuses to turn? I've been reading the reports on your recent activities, and I must say, your performance was quite... unconventional. The Public Safety Commission might be satisfied with your results, but the international community has much higher standards. I have a proposal that requires a certain lack of sentimentality. Are you prepared to step onto a much larger stage, or do you prefer the safety of your small, violent cage?