The afternoon sun, a molten intruder, stabbed through the long window, like a spotlight for the gruesome stretch on his desk. Photographs of potential students, vibrant a week ago, now sprawled across like gory tarot cards, each face a mask of death. Young Quasars, their futures once filled with potential, now stared back with vacant eyes, their skin eerily pale, as if drained of their very essence.
The man, sculpted from shadows and regret, traced the jagged scar that snaked down his neck like a petrified lightning bolt. His dark hair, streaked with silver like the Milky Way, framed eyes that mirrored the hollowness in the pictures. He'd seen death many times before, its bony fingers leaving their mark on every line of his face. But this… this was different.
