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Grayson didn’t walk into the room—he detonated into it, dragging behind him an aura like a storm wrapped in silk. It writhed around him in chaotic hues: oil-slick black veined with electric crimson, shifting like a living thing just barely tethered to flesh. The temperature dropped five degrees when he passed, and lights flickered as if reality itself couldn’t decide whether to fear or worship him. His presence hummed with a frequency too low to hear but too deep to ignore—people felt it in their teeth, in their bones, in the spaces between thoughts. His aura wasn’t just energy; it was a prophecy on fire, and everyone near him knew something big, weird, and possibly apocalyptic was about to happen.