The undercity's neon glow painted shifting shadows across Xylar's mask as they emerged from the bar area. Around them, conversations died mid-sentence, replaced by urgent whispers that rippled through the crowd like a digital virus.
He caught fragments of conversations – his name, his reputation, theories about why someone of his caliber would grace this particular corner of hell.
Viper felt a surge of satisfaction as he noticed the fearful glances cast their way. In Area 52's hierarchy of predators, standing beside the Phantom of Drakoria elevated his own status considerably. Each step they took through the crowd felt like a proclamation of power. This, he thought, was how respect was earned in the wasteland – through association with those whose very names made others tremble.
