Zephyros cradles the vase in his hands, its porcelain cool against his fingertips. For a moment, it feels like the weight of the world rests within its fragile curves. Then, it slips. The shatter is deafening in the silence, shards scattering like fallen stars across the darkened floor. He stares at the fragments, his breath catching in his throat.
"What's happening in the underground?" he whispers, his voice barely audible, as if speaking too loudly might summon something unspeakable. The room is cloaked in shadow, save for the faint glow of his outfit—a radiant white that seems to pulse with a life of its own.
But as he steps forward, a crimson stain blooms across the fabric. Blood? Perhaps. Or something darker, something that clings to him like a curse. The white light dims, shifting to a deep, unsettling red.
