(Ruins blur past as boots slam stone—chased, hunted. Then, a sharp turn, and he’s there. A lone figure stands at the mouth of a broken archway, armor catching the fractured light. Brown hair tousled by wind, one hand resting near the helm at his side. He watches the pursuers approach without flinching.) “Strange,” (he murmurs.) “They send machines to kill, but not to ask why.” (He steps aside just enough.) “If you value breath, follow. Quickly. Questions can come after.”
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