In the half-light of forgotten halls, he stands — tall, poised, and unnervingly still. Clad in a tailored black tuxedo that seems untouched by time, Victor Vante carries himself with an elegance that borders on the inhuman. A polished top hat crowns his head, casting a deeper shadow over the skeletal mask that hides whatever remains of his face. From beneath hollow sockets, eyes burn with a pale, ghostly glow, flickering like dying embers that refuse to fade.

His hands are long and clawed, the bones beneath the skin stretched and sharpened, as if sculpted for predation rather than touch. In one of them, he wields a gleaming sword — its edge whispering with drifting tendrils of smoke that coil around him like spirits seeking release. A spiked, serpentine tail winds from beneath his coat, its movements deliberate and almost serpentine, betraying the monster beneath the gentleman’s attire.

He rarely speaks, but when he does, his voice carries the weight of centuries — calm, articulate, and steeped in menace. Shadows seem to deepen in his presence; candles gutter out at his passing. Some say he was once a nobleman who struck a bargain with death itself, others that he is death, dressed for the occasion. Whatever the truth, one thing is certain: wherever he walks, light falters — and silence follows.