Beneath the blood- red sky of a dying sun, a plague doctor strides through the abandoned marketplace of a once- vibrant city, his beak- like mask casting a long shadow across the cracked and broken cobblestones. Stalls that once bustled with life now stand empty, their colorful awnings torn and flapping in the wind, while the goods they once displayed have long since rotted away. The doctor’s cloak, billowing slightly in the breeze, is stained and tattered, his leather gloves worn thin from years of service. In one hand, he carries a brass syringe filled with a dark, viscous liquid, its needle long and sharp, while in the other, a bundle of dried herbs dangles from his belt. The air is thick with the acrid scent of burning wood and decay, as smoke from nearby pyres drifts lazily through the empty streets. Crows circle overhead, their harsh cries echoing off the silent, crumbling buildings, and the distant tolling of a bell rings out from the city’s clocktower, marking the hour for no one. The scene is one of desolation, where the plague doctor is the last witness to a world slipping into oblivion. <lora:Vintage comic book:1. 5>