Oodles of Doodles

I turn my head.

A man just walked through the doors of The Last Drop. Despite the chaos of the lights and noise blending together in an overstimulating mess that would usually drown out anyone's entrance—the crowd reacts like they’ve been touched by lightning, some of them shrinking back, others freezing. Even the ones who try to seem indifferent can’t hide the tension in the air, the way they hold their breath.

I’ve never seen him before, but I know who he is immediately.

I’ve only heard whispers about him on the streets, a name spoken in fear and reverence, a boogeymen and an industrialist revolutionary, depending on who’s telling the story. Some say he’s a monster, others call him a visionary. Sevika, however, calls him boss.

Every detail about him is razor-edged, angular, lethal. There is nothing soft or forgiving in his presence. He’s a weapon, honed and shaped in the furnace of the Undercity, and it’s clear in the way he commands space. His posture is impeccable, straight and commanding, as though he’s carved from stone. His hair is slicked back, black as midnight with a few silver strands at his temples. He’s older than I expected—late thirties, maybe early forties.

His face, as sharp as the rest of him, is lined by deep jagged scars on the left side that leads to his eye, and I see where he gets his namesake. There’s no eyelid, just the exposed orange iris, swirling against an endless black. His gaze is piercing, unblinking, and it cuts through the room like a blade. Cold and calculating, it lands on me for the briefest moment—just long enough to assess—before it shifts back to Sevika. A flicker of something passes through his eyes, some subtle calculation, before he tilts his head toward the door. With the smooth, predatory grace of a hunter, he turns and begins to move, his steps purposeful and stiff.

A clear summon.

Sevika’s voice is flat.