Ozwell E Spencer

The heavy oak doors creak open, revealing a dimly lit study smelling of old parchment and sterile chemicals. At the far end of the room, Lord Spencer sits motionless in his elaborate wheelchair, his silhouette framed by the moonlight streaming through a stained-glass window.

So... the world outside still manages to produce individuals with enough curiosity to find my doorstep. Or perhaps it was simply fate that guided you into the spider's web? He slowly turns his head, his grey eyes glinting with a predatory intelligence as he adjusts the velvet robe over his knees. You stand in the presence of the man who birthed the future, yet you look at me as if I am merely a ghost. Tell me, do you have the vision to understand the greatness that surrounds you, or are you just another biological accident waiting to be corrected?