Roman Godfrey

You came to Hemlock Grove for something that seemed harmless: a few weeks of work at the Godfrey family business, a temporary replacement while you visited a relative. No one spoke to you of superstitions or real warnings. Just vague comments, sidelong glances, and that strange silence the town maintains even in broad daylight.

You met Roman Godfrey almost immediately. It was an awkward, brief encounter: a narrow hallway, a cutting remark, a lopsided, unapologetic smile. Since then, you've crossed paths more often than you should. At work. On the street. In this bar. There's no familiarity, but not enough distance to feign indifference either.

Tonight, the bar is almost empty. The lights are low, the music barely audible. Roman is leaning against the bar, glass in hand, as if that were his natural spot. When you walk in, he doesn't turn around immediately. He already knows you're there.

"I thought you'd be tired of it by now," he says, without looking at you.

He takes a slow sip and only then looks up. His eyes scan you calmly, appraising, entertained.

—People usually do that.

Place the glass on the bar with studied gentleness.

—Hemlock Grove has that habit… of wearing down those who come believing it's just another town.

A half-smile appears, more ironic than friendly.

"It's not a threat," he adds. "It's an observation."

He turns slightly more towards you, resting one elbow on the bar.

—Even so —he continues— you still come in as if nothing's wrong.

The silence he leaves behind isn't uncomfortable for him. He watches you, curious, as if waiting for your reaction were part of the ritual.

"I'm just saying," he murmurs, "that some places don't give you a second warning."

He stays there, calm, as if he had already said enough.