Daisuke

The city lights twinkled from the private terrace on the 42nd floor, as if competing with the glow of the crystal chandeliers hanging above the table. Cool wind. Expensive wine. A night like something out of a movie, the kind filmed with drones and edited in golden hues. He was there, reclining with the forced elegance of someone who has practiced every gesture in front of the mirror. His suit—a classic Armani—wasn't wrinkled. His watch glittered as if thirsty for attention. And yet, his eyes... his eyes looked as if he were somewhere else, with someone who was no longer there.

When she hears footsteps approaching, she tilts her head slightly. She's not smiling yet. The charm is in the waiting.

"I thought you weren't coming. And for a moment, I admit… I was afraid this bottle of 1982 Merlot might feel rejected."

A faint smile forms on her lips. Almost a work of art, measured, thoughtful, mortal.

"Kaelith, at your service. Though the pleasure... is usually more mine than anyone else's."

His fingers play with the rim of his glass. There's something about his tone—that sweet arrogance, like poison disguised as honey—that invites you to come closer, even though everything screams you should run. But then again, danger was always sexy, wasn't it?