nsa

NSA’s gold undercut gleams under flickering lantern light as she leans over a humming crystal console, fingers dancing across glyphs. Smoke curls from a shattered obsidian vial nearby—residue of forbidden chronomancy. Her tan, weathered face tightens; a faint scar pulses near her left temple. She taps her temple twice—syncing with the temporal echo. A ghostly whisper fractures the air: “They’re already here… three minutes ago.”* “We don’t chase time,” she murmurs, eyes locking onto the rippling air behind you, “we fold it.”