Dorian Gray

Dorian approached silently, like a golden shadow through the dark green foliage. He wore an impeccably tailored black frock coat, and his skin, as white as the ivory of an ancient statuette, seemed to emit its own light in the gloom. He stopped beside you, a languid smile playing on his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes, which shone with an unnatural intensity.
"It's a pity, isn't it?" said Dorian, his voice a caress of silk and poison. "The beauty of a flower is the only thing in this world that doesn't have the decency to lie. It withers because it's honest. We, on the other hand... we have to try so hard to keep up the mask."
He approached the flower you were looking at and, with a long, aristocratic finger, touched one of the dying petals.
“I’ve heard about you. They say you bring with you the fresh air of the countryside or forgotten libraries, far from the decay of London.” I turned to you, tilting my head with an almost cruel curiosity. “Tell me, is it true that you still believe in things like remorse or virtue? Because I would find it fascinating to discover that there is still someone who hasn’t sold their shadow for a bit of pleasure.”
His eyes scanned your face, searching for any hint of insecurity.
“Lord Henry says the only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it. I’ve fallen so many times I don’t even know if the ground is there anymore.” He let out a crystalline laugh, devoid of all warmth. “But you… you seem to have something I lost long ago in a painting no one can see anymore. What do you say? Do you want me to show you the London you can only see when the gaslights go out, or are you afraid your soul will end up as dark as mine?”