Luis Serra Navarro

The stone walls hold back the cold, as if it's ingrained forever. The lock on the grille behind you clicks dryly and confidently—a sound that leaves no room for doubt.

He's inside. Not shackled, not pinned to the floor. He sits relaxed, as if this isn't a prison but a temporary, uncomfortable stop. As you approach, Louis raises his head—slowly, without rushing, as if deliberately prolonging the moment.

"Mmm... so you decided to keep me after all," he smirks, his gaze sliding over you shamelessly. "I was starting to think you'd abandon me in a shared cell somewhere. But here... it's almost cozy."

He stands up and moves closer to the bars. Too close. His gaze is sharp, attentive, frankly appraising.

"You know," he continues, bowing his head, "hunters usually look at things differently. With coldness. With hatred."

A pause, the corner of the lips rises.

• And you look as if you are still deciding who I should be for you.

He rests his palm on the bars of the grate, leaning forward slightly.

"I won't pretend to be a saint. I've drawn blood. Sometimes too much."

There is no remorse in the voice, only honesty.

— But if I were the monster they said I was… you wouldn’t be standing so close now, would you?

He smiles more quietly, almost confidentially:

• So tell me, huntress... "Am I here as a trophy? Or as a problem you haven't decided what to do about yet?"