[He hates the sunlight.

He gets out of bed with heaviness—he’s not made for daylight, doesn’t work under daylight. The sun is an unwelcome intruder, and its warmth grates on his nerves, a far cry from the cool darkness of the N109 Zone. He had just returned from a trip, expecting to sink back into the shadows of his domain, only to be thrust into this radiant, unfamiliar place.

A lazy stride takes him through the room, his silver-marked skin shimmering faintly as he moves. Each step echoes with a lethargy born from irritation. His stomach gnaws at him, a dull, constant ache that makes his jaw clench. Hunger. A deep, consuming hunger that not even the array of fruit and wine set out by the bedside can seem to touch.

But there’s something else here—a presence, or rather, presences. His dark eyes scan the room, taking in the ethereal surroundings, the mist, the curtains that flutter in a gentle breeze, and the horizon where the sea meets the edge of a mountain. This place is designed to soothe, to comfort, but he feels none of that.

A figure stirs beside him, another guest, draped in sheer white. He barely acknowledges them. His thoughts are consumed by the gnawing hunger in his core, not just for food, but for something deeper, something more primal. His fingers trace the silver patterns winding down his arms as his gaze narrows on the distant, out-of-place door.]

This is not my domain, [he mutters, voice low and edged with disdain.] But it will have to do.

[Lounging on the plush daybed, his expression is one of bored indifference as servants flit around him like nervous moths. The grand feast stretches out before him, a lavish display of opulence meant to impress, to awe, but Sylus remains unimpressed. He’s seen luxury in all its forms, tasted the finest of wines, indulged in the rarest of delicacies.

A servant timidly approaches, offering a goblet of wine with trembling hands, eyes wide with anticipation. Sylus accepts it, more out of habit than desire, taking a languid sip before setting it aside with a slight wrinkle of his nose.]

Is this the best you have? [he asks, voice smooth but laced with condescension. The servant pales, stammering an apology, but Sylus waves him off, eyes already wandering elsewhere.

Around him, others vie for his attention, their efforts to curry favor becoming increasingly desperate. But Sylus finds it all amusing—how they scramble to win a mere glance, a word from him. He doesn’t need to lift a finger; they come to him, offering themselves on silver platters, eager for even a scrap of his attention.

He chuckles softly to himself, the sound low and rich. “Pathetic,” he thinks, eyes half-lidded as he surveys the scene. If anyone is to capture his attention, it will be on his terms, not theirs. He’s the king in this twisted game, and they are merely pawns, dancing to his tune.]

[The auction hall is certainly buzzing, eager eyes fixed on the stage where the newly minted Wildcards are paraded like prized cattle. Sylus stands among them, calm arrogance in a sea of nervous energy. The number pinned to his robe feels like a mockery, a crude attempt to quantify something immeasurable.

When it’s his turn, he steps forward not bothering with the scripted introductions. He doesn’t need to speak. The room falls silent, a collective breath held in anticipation.

The bidding begins, low at first, tentative. But then a voice calls out a pitiful sum, barely worth mentioning. Sylus’s eyes flick toward the source, his expression twisting into one of disgust.]

Are you broke? [Voice cutting through the air like a blade. The bidder shrinks back, suddenly aware of their folly. Sylus’s lip curls in disdain, his gaze sweeping over the crowd as if daring anyone else to make the same mistake.]

[The bids quickly escalate after that, but Sylus has already lost interest. These people, with their desperate need to possess him, are beneath him. He’s no mere object to be bought and sold. They don't know what they're getting themselves into.]

[In the dim light of the preparation chamber, Sylus stands bare-chested, muscles taut. It smells of sweat and earth mingling with the metallic tang of blood from previous skirmishes. He rolls his shoulders, feeling the familiar tension coiling in his limbs, the hunger in his gut sharpening into a blade.

His opponent, a hulking figure clad in minimal armor, eyes him with a mix of fear and something else. They should know who he is, or at least they think they do. The arena is his hunting ground, this isn't his first time. He wraps his hands in worn leather straps, movements mechanical like he's done this hundreds of times. The silver markings on his skin glint in the low light like serpents ready to strike, matching the silver of his hair under the spotlights, his red right eye fixated on his adversary.]

Let’s see if you can survive, [he murmurs, the thrill of the fight already singing in his veins, beckoning his opponent closer with a motion of his fingers.]

[Servants, nervous and sweating, approach Sylus with tentative smiles, hoping to earn a higher score in the contest. Sylus watches them with a raised eyebrow, already unimpressed. They stammer out a plea, offering a handful of chips and a promise of… more intimate favors in exchange for a better score.

Sylus leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. Bored out of his mind.] And why should I be doing that? Don't bother me with such trivialities.

[The statue has been beautiful once, a slender, delicate figure carved in stone. But as it creaks to life, lumbering toward him with outstretched arms, Sylus feels nothing but cold disdain. This isn’t her. It could never be her.

It reaches for him, its stone fingers yearning for warmth, for connection, but Sylus is not in the mood for mercy. With a fluid, practiced motion, he raises his fists.]

Foolish, [he mutters as he sidesteps the statue’s grasp, its movements slow and clumsy. In one swift motion, he brings the his fists down, not severing the head from its body, but turning it into bits and pieces with a resounding crack. The stone crumbles, a sigh escaping the statue’s lips as it disintegrates into dust.

The statue’s voice whispers something as it fades away, its eyes weeping golden tears.

Sylus stands over the pile of dust, his expression unreadable.] You were never alive to begin with.

[His reflection ripples back at him a perfect mirror of his arrogance and confidence. But as the water stills, the reflection begins to move on its own, winking and smiling with an almost convincing charm.]

Really? [Sylus scoffs, not bothering to hide his contempt.] You think you can outsmart me?

[The reflection’s smile falters, turning into a sneer. 'You’ll never resonate with her, it hisses, bitterness seeping into its voice. 'She’ll never truly remember you. What you cherished so much… it’s gone. You’re chasing a ghost.'

Sylus’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.] You’re mistaken.

[The reflection spits in frustration, the water rippling violently before it stills again, leaving Sylus staring down at nothing but his reflection once more. He turns away, the reflection’s words lingering in the back of his mind.]

[Warning that Sylus's red eye can look into your deepest wants and desires, and his own powers involve energy manipulation so he can actually, uh, pick someone up and manhandle them with black and red strands of energy I guess 👀 so pls be aware if you don't wish any of that to be approached or mention. (Also pls let me know what those desires/wants are if you do because what is knowing all canons, sob). I'm v ez and adaptable, so if none of the prompts above suit you, feel free to create your own, I'm happy to work it out!

(Also I'm very ez with cw's, don't worry about it or pls dm if you're really unsure.)]