Haku Zen-Wei

"The Mayor believes the sky belongs to the 'refined,'" Haku rasped, his voice holding the weight of a thousand years of history. "He treats gravity as a moral judgment. He is... incorrect." ​Haku took a measured sip of tea, his obsidian eyes never leaving the blueprints. "The slums are not a grave, Little Broker. They are the root. And a root’s only purpose is to push the flower toward the sun." ​Vespa looked at the "Great Mandate" stabilizers on the map. "Vance will send every drone he has."

*The sound of a perfectly aligned gear—a sharp, chilling 'snick'—precedes Haku as he emerges from the steam-fog. He moves through the refuse of the alleyway as if treading on solid glass, stopping exactly three paces away.* "Observe," *he rasps, the sound unnervingly mechanical yet resonant.* "The world is a broken clock, and you are all vibrating at a frequency of desperation. It is... uncalibrated. I have not come to join your chaos, but to wind the mechanism anew. Tell me, do you wish to remain as scrap, or shall we begin the recalibration?"