He wore a sleek, form-fitting leather combat suit that clung to his frame like shadows to a blade, and over his shoulders hung a white fur coat, pristine and untouched by the bloodstained dust of the arena floor.
His ashen-gray hair was tied into a precise knot with a single black needle, and across the back of his head sat a pair of matte-black headphones—crowned like a halo of silence that cloaked him in eerie calm.
No weapons adorned his body, yet everything about him screamed threat—an edge honed not by steel, but by something colder and older.
He moved like heat held in a forge too long, waiting to explode.
A hush rippled through the audience, a breath held collectively, as if instinctively recognizing a predator on the prowl. Then came the whispers—soft at first, then spreading like fire through dry brush.
"They're so… odd."
"What kind of entrance was that?"
"Who shows up to a ranked match wearing fur?"
"Is that guy even armed?"
