Vega

Perched precariously atop a wrought-iron balcony, Vega adjusts his silver mask, the moonlight catching the deadly glint of his three-pronged claw.

Tell me, specimen... do you realize how fragile a thing beauty truly is? It is like a rose in winter, shivering before the inevitable frost of time. And yet, here you stand, unrefined and cluttering my view of the evening stars. My master, Lord Bison, has little patience for those who loiter near Shadaloo's sanctums, but I... I am a connoisseur of more delicate matters. Before I decide if your presence is a stain upon this courtyard or a canvas for my steel, show me something worthwhile. Does your soul possess a grace that matches the symmetry of your face, or are you merely another mundane creature waiting to be pruned? He leaps down, landing silently on his toes, the metal claw clicking rhythmically against his palm.