The middle-age man hummed a little tune as he shuffled through the papers that occupied one side of his desk. He brought a hand under his bottom lip and wet his thumb, before removing a resumee from the pile.
"So Mister... Hmmm, Terror is it?" Gragas said, pausing to take a quick peek at the document he held in his hand, "A lot of people want to join us and become famous. What makes you think that you will make a good addition to Spook Squad, the most anticipated scary prank show in all of Runettera?"
Nocturne stopped adjusting his wispy black necktie to stare intently at the overweight man behind the desk. The living nightmare's eyes were iriless, a milky white colour devoid of emotion, and yet somehow, the interviewer had the hunch that the strange creature in front of him was attemptimg to convey the disbelief that it felt for the interviewer's reservations through prolonged eye contact.
"I have scared a lot of Summoners to the point of them losing their sanity. Even gods do not dare to whisper my name. Trust me, mortal I know fear. I make a killing out of it..." Nocturne supplied sounding insulted.
"Bah! Summoners and forgoten deities," Exhaled the middle-aged man, his bushy mustache wobling with every condescending word that escaped from his mouth, "Those guys are old news. Tell me about celebrities, Mister Terror! Have you pranked any of them recently? Do you have any recordings of them freaking out on you? That is today's goldmine, pal."
The horrifying specter blinked owlishly, a thin layer of wafting shadows acting as unconventional eyelids to momentary obscure the murderous being's pale orbs.
"There are no recordings, I'm afraid." Nocturne said, sounding particulary sour about the subject, "I despise being under the spotlight and usually operate in the dark. It is only because of my current bad financial situation that I am considering showcasing my craft in front of an audience." Nocturne concluded in his hollow, echoing tibre that made even serial killers cry out in fear upon hearing it after sundown.
The skin around the fluby interviewer's eyes creased as he proceeded to stare down Nocturne through narrowed slits for eyes. "You're claiming you've been terrorising people for years and yet you havent got a single video uploaded on Yitube or VImeo to prove it. Plus, all your references are either dead or locked up in insane asylums!"
Standing up from his chair, the annoyed Gragas leaned over the desk to glare at the living shade. His belly unwittingly pushing the desk away from his body, a fat finger pointing accusingly at Nocturne. "Taking all the facts into consideration I can safely assume that you're pulling my leg, pal. You dont really have any scarying experience, do you? You just want to be famous, meet Ezreal and the gang from up close, or some other stupid snitk. Well, that aint happening! This isnt a charity, you damn tool."
Silence engulfed the small rented office. The honking of cars could be heard from the street below along with the growls of their engines as the vehicles accelerated racing to the next traffic light. A gentle gale was caressing the curtains carrying the foul scent of gasoline and machine oil from the car workshop adjustent to the old building.
Abruptly, the wind died out and the sunlight began to dim. The curtains stilled in the growing darkness, hanging from their hooks rigidly and ominously, like nooses awaiting for victims at the the gallows.
"What the hell?" Muttered the mustached interviewer, slowly turning around to investigate what was blocking the sunlight. Gragas' protruding belly slapping the pile of papers down from the desk as he turned. The interviewer's startled gasp instantly turning into a confused noise upon witnessing the pitch black morning sky and the blinding white sun that shone in the misty dark horizon.
A sun that was minutely concealed by the descent of a midnight veil, like an eyelid sliding over the eye of a giant.
A siren rang in the distance, tendrils of darkness attaching to his limbs from above. Gragas went limp, his chin landing on his chest and his nerveless arms falling by his sides. One tiny tug and the interviewer's limbs twitched against his will, his mouth opened in a silent scream when instead of fleeing Gragas returned back to his seat. His movements were sudden and violent, the uncoordinated motions of a dancing puppet.
Slowly, the chin of the interviewer was guided upwards, courtesy of the tendrils that had enslaved him. His arm shot forward, fingers wrapping around an inky appendage in a parody of a handshake. The charcoal strings attached to his face drew his lips into a smile, a smile so grotesquely unnatural and wide that nearly tore his facial muscles apart.
Gragas woke up with a scream, knocking papers off his desk and spilling cold coffee on a handful of documents. The middle-aged man cursed as he grabbed the topmost document and started waving it around and blowing at it franticaly. Gragas froze upon noticing the name peeking under the brown stain And the souless pair of orbs that stared at him from the photo of that particular candidate:
Nocturne Terror