On a tower of glass and steel, nestled high above the capital of Chronisca, moonlight spilled through crystalline windows and bathed the room in a ghostly sheen. The air was quiet—too quiet for a place meant to observe the flow of time itself.
Two men stood within it.
One, still as marble, wore a smooth white mask that covered his entire face. His coat—white as snow—had intricate black engravings etched into its fabric, forming constellations only he understood. He stood with hands clasped behind his back, staring down at Chronisca as if weighing its worth.
The other leaned casually against the curved wall, arms crossed, one boot resting atop the other. His half-mask covered only his mouth and chin, but the way his eyes glimmered made his smirk unmistakable.
"So," the half-masked man said, breaking the silence. "Number One's calling us in?"
The masked man nodded once, slow and precise.
"Still the silent type," the other chuckled. "You haven't changed one bit, Number Two."
