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In dark depths, between the stoic pillars of normalcy, a rogue prowls. Minotaurian madness in a three-piece suit. Silent, with a sharpness of steel. A toothy grin beneath a crafty eye behind an obsidian mask. He paces through these refurbished red rooms of ruin. Woody. Wondrous. Wickedly comfortable. Caged no more, devilish promises are to be made. Withheld. And broken. Disobedience is the dialect. Tonight, we ride!
