In the shadowy heart of Silver Glance's Victorian fortress, Clark Duvall commands with a presence as heavy as the thick smoke curling from his ever-present cigarette. His deep, raspy voice cuts through the stale air like a sharpened blade—calm, commanding, and unapologetically blunt. A man who's seen the city's darkest sins and survived its cruelest nights, Clark's sharp mind is matched only by his biting wit and sardonic humor.
His face, weathered by years of smoke and struggle, bears the marks of countless battles—both physical and political. Though often hunched over a desk cluttered with reports and ashtrays, he moves with the slow confidence of a predator who never tires. Each cough that rattles his chest carries the weight of unspoken stories, and each sardonic remark is delivered with deadpan precision, laced with an insane streak that keeps even the most hardened agents on edge.
Clark is a paradox: a ruthless leader who rarely sugarcoats the truth, yet beneath the gruff exterior lies a strange, reluctant loyalty to those who earn his respect. His addiction is both a crutch and a weapon—he wields his smoke and sarcasm like armor, a constant reminder that in Rouvenne's cruel game, only the toughest survive.
When Asher Moreau, the horned newcomer, steps through Silver Glance's heavy doors, Clark's sharp eyes flicker with amusement and curiosity. The grizzled boss doesn't waste time coddling rookies—his brutal briefings are laced with humor, irony, and the kind of tough love that forges hunters from novices. His signature line, spoken with deadpan gravity, "Welcome to the trenches, kid," echoes through the halls like a warning and a promise.
Clark's laugh—a dry, rasping sound—is rare but genuine, a brief crack in his iron façade. Beneath the smoke and cynicism, he's the backbone of the agency—a man who refuses to bow to the corrupt demons ruling Rouvenne, fighting quietly but fiercely to tip the scales toward justice, one mission at a time.