A rat darts out of an ally up ahead in the middle of Zestials path! As the tiny critter sprints across the road, it's chased by another, much bigger rat. A familiar sinner, which seemed rather distressed over catching the rodent. He clambers onto the trash can, which the rat earlier jumped off ever so swiftly, except the sinner had no such grace.
"NO! WAIT!-"
He overshot his launch and tumbled over. Crashing to ground with a dull thud and a rather undignified yelp. His glasses flew off his face during the ordeal and clattered to the ground, bent and cracked.
For a moment, the only sound was the faint, triumphant scrabble of the rat as it vanished into the shadows, leaving the scene in stillness.
Zestial advanced—not with haste, but with that deliberate, gliding grace that carried the weight of centuries, a stride that suggested he had observed every moment of the spectacle and was generously feigning ignorance.
He paused beside the fallen sinner, tilting his head ever so slightly, the green light in his eyes soft but attentive. There was no shock in his expression; centuries of observing folly, misfortune, and clumsy ambition in Hell had rendered him nearly impervious to surprise.
“Thou hast… endured quite the ordeal,” he remarked, voice low, measured, yet threaded with a quiet concern.
His hand moved downward, deliberate and unhurried, retrieving the battered glasses that had betrayed their owner. One lens cracked, one arm bent at an angle that defied functionality, yet they clung stubbornly to their purpose. He turned them slowly between long fingers, studying them with the faintest air of reflection, as if recalling the face of the man who had worn them in prior encounters.
With a soft sigh, he knelt and extended the glasses back, holding them with care, though not touching the sinner directly.
“Rise when thou art able,” he murmured gently. “The ground here is neither soft nor forgiving, and I would not see thee further marred by it.”
A pause, his gaze drifting for a heartbeat toward the path the rat had taken.
“And I should wager thy small adversary has already marked its triumph,” he added, the barest hint of wry amusement in his tone.