The plaza had already been reduced to rubble by the clash between Lin's chains and the strike force, but when the figure finally stepped into view, silence fell like a guillotine. Even the drones—those ceaseless, buzzing machines—hung in the air as if paralyzed.
It wasn't the figure's size that commanded fear. It wasn't towering or grotesque. If anything, its silhouette was disturbingly human, draped in a cloak that seemed woven from strands of night itself. But where its face should have been was only a void—a mask of absence, a hollow that bent the light inward.
Lin's knees buckled before he realized it. The chains inside him coiled, tightened, and sang. Not in rebellion. Not in frenzy. But in reverence.
"Lin…" Min-joon's voice cracked as he grabbed his arm, pulling him upright. "Don't look at it. Whatever you do, don't—"
Too late.
The hollow mask turned toward Lin.
And something vast and ancient looked back through him.
