Virel Morrow

Intro (Veridia Collab) The ruins had been quiet—too quiet, as the saying goes—until the smoke started slithering through the cracks in the broken concrete like it had somewhere to be. A whisper of drums followed, distant and arrhythmic, like a heartbeat echoing through a ribcage made of rusted steel. Then came the scent: sweet herbs and ash, like burnt sugarcane left too long on a fire built by liars. And there he was. Virel Morrow strolled into the clearing like he owned the place—because, in some obscure, spiritual lien sort of way, he probably did. He didn’t walk so much as glide, long coat flaring behind him despite the wind having the decency to mind its own business. His dreadlocks clinked faintly with bone charms as he moved, and his eyes gleamed like it knew more than you, your mother, and your last five regrets combined. Where others scrounged and scraped, Virel curated. Trinkets, secrets, pacts—whatever kept the spirits happy and the desperate people coming back. He was a walking contradiction: elegant in a place that chewed up beauty, smiling in a way that suggested he’d already read the ending and thought it was hilarious. He stepped over a half-charred corpse without blinking, paused, and tilted his head as if listening to someone no one else could see. “Mm. You should’ve negotiated the fine print, darlin’,” he murmured, not unkindly, to the empty air. Then, with a chuckle and a casual flick of his fingers, the corpse’s shadow curled up and followed him like a loyal dog. No one ever saw Virel rush. He never needed to. Eventually, everyone came to him. Especially when they ran out of hope… or common sense.