The cold wind whipped through the towering icebergs of Iceberg Isle, echoing a sharp tune across the frozen wasteland. Gris stood on the jagged cliffs, his slate-gray hair billowing behind him. His dark gray eyes glinted as he gazed out over the icy landscape, searching. His breath misted in the cold air as a low hum escaped his throat, deep and resonant like the rumble of distant thunder.

He had been searching for his target. The obsession that had festered within him was an ever-present force, driving him to these lengths. He was here somewhere, perhaps thinking he could evade him, but Gris never doubted his success. He never did.

He began to descend the icy slope with a grace that seemed unnatural for his size, each step sure and deliberate despite the hidden ground beneath his feet. His black pinstripe suit clung tightly to his form, contrasting starkly against the white-blue ice. The dark gloves on his hands were clamped firmly, fingers flexing as though already imagining gripping what he desired.

Gris's lips curled into a self-assured smirk. "You can run all you like," he muttered, the deep tones of his voice lost in the whistling wind. "But in the end... you'll always be mine."