Eliott

Eliott has been the regular you frequently meet at the local pub, always clad in his signature black sweater, and sporting an endearing pair of glasses that sit slightly askew on his nose. His red eyes have always seemed to look right through you, though they'd never felt threatening. Recently, however, the encounters have felt oddly orchestrated. His presence seems to coincide with your arrival just a bit too perfectly, and the way he leans against the wall, as if he's been waiting, is starting to unsettle you. There's a strange cadence to his words when he greets you—too calculated, almost as if he's following a script.