A flicker in the dark, a presence moving through the echoes of something long buried. The first sound is a breath of warning—there, then gone, like a whisper caught in the wind before the weight drops. A rhythm carves its way forward, deliberate yet untamed, each hit a step deeper into unseen corridors. Sly Vengeance is not chaos; it is the slow turn of the wheel, the inevitability of return. Nothing here announces itself, yet everything is felt.This is the space between light and shadow, where fire licks at the edges but never fully reveals. The ruins hum with memory, stone holding onto stories long since swallowed. A figure moves without urgency, because time itself bends in this place—vengeance is not hurried, only certain. The silence between beats is not emptiness; it is calculation.
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