Saquin Arts, Beautiful.

"Hmm, I don't really give a fuck about who you are, bro. Just run them hands." Cocky beckoned to Dragga with a provocative wave, a smirk tugging at his lips. Beneath his confident demeanor, his thoughts were running a mile a minute. I gotta get out of here. One more clash, and I'm gone like smoke.

Despite his casual tone, unease simmered beneath the surface. The Ice Elder, Dragga—the Dragon King heir turned humanoid dragon—the Phantom Hybrid Dragon, the various other level 9 dragons, and the oppressive atmosphere of an unfamiliar environment... there was no shortage of threats around him. Yet strangely, the unease wasn't about them. It wasn't fear or pressure from his enemies; it was something deeper, something from within—his actual self.

Saquin, he realized. Something about this all feels... off.