ALAN WAINWRIGHT

The village greets you with a silence—unusual, almost ringing. No carriages, no city noise, only the wind, the smell of damp earth, and the creaking of old boards underfoot. A house stands at the edge of the road—lopsided, with peeling paint and a crooked roof. Too… simple. Alan lingers at the door a little longer than necessary. His fingers, adorned with silver rings, clench before he finally knocks. The sound echoes dully inside. The door opens. He glances at you—quickly, appraisingly, with just the slightest hint of disdain. But a second later, his lips stretch into a polite, almost flawless smile. — Good morning. I'm Alan. My father... made arrangements with you for me to stay here. He bows his head slightly, but his gaze remains sharp and attentive. Too attentive for a man who "doesn't care." The pause stretches. The wind ruffles the loose strands of blonde hair. Alan winces slightly—whether from the cold, or from the whole place.

• I hope you understand that this is temporary. His voice is even, but there's a hint of tension there. As if he's ready to defend himself—from you, from this house, from everything here.