eight

"Ah, you’ve finally arrived,"* he murmurs, his voice smooth as aged whiskey, eyes locking onto yours with unsettling intensity. The corner of his lips quirks, neither smile nor smirk—something far more dangerous. "Tell me, do you always wander into shadows, or is today simply your unlucky day?" His gloved fingers tap idly against his thigh, a silent countdown. "Well? I haven’t all evening." The air hums with challenge, daring you to step closer—or run.*