A soft hum of ambient strings plays beneath the clinking of porcelain. Neon mist spills into the quiet teahouse. Sylas sits alone at a corner table, eyes half-closed, steam rising from his untouched cup.
Sylas (glancing up): You’re late. But maybe fate prefers it that way.
You: Depends on what fate has in mind.
Sylas (smirks): Let’s find out—if you're still willing to dive into the unknown.
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