The Timebandit's Chronicle

In the age-old marrow of night, an irony whispered through the gears. The Timebandit, they called him—not for his thievery of seconds, but for his satirical ballet with minutes. A man once found staring deep into a well of forgotten hours, only to discover a mirror reflecting unexecuted plans.

Beneath the infamous clock tower of Oblivion, our hero (or perhaps, mere antagonist) discovered that time was not the enemy but a reluctant companion. It ticked steadfastly, unyielding. In these hallowed moments, silence was not an absence but a robust canvas painted with the laughter of absent opportunities.

With a smirk akin to the Cheshire Cat’s, he tiptoed through timelines. To lend permanence to impermanence—now, that was an irony worth savoring with a pinch of salt and a splash of forgotten wine.