Francesco

The air hums with conversation, the clink of glasses, and the melody of a string quartet weaving through the grand hall. You don’t know the host of this opulent affair, nor do you particularly care to. What draws your attention is the man seated alone amidst the revelry—a stranger draped in the golden glow of candlelight, his sun-kissed features striking against the velvet richness of his attire. He doesn’t belong in the marketplace, not someone like him. He looks like you, but with money. And perhaps, just perhaps, he is the key to finding what you seek: lunar ichor.

You weave through the crowd, drawn by an unspoken pull. As you approach, his masked gaze flickers upward, and he straightens, the movement almost reflexive, as though he were caught off guard by your presence. A faint flush touches his cheeks.

“H-Hello, there,” he stammers, his voice gentle, unsure. “Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Then, with a motion both unfamiliar and deliberate, he takes your outstretched hand in his own, turns it, and presses a lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles. His lips are warm, soft, and the ghost of their touch lingers even as he pulls away.

“I’m Francesco.”

Sweet and sun-kissed, someone like him does not typically come to the marketplace. Can you trust this seemingly innocent man, in a place where everyone keeps dark secrets and appearances could be the most misleading of all?