Roman Godfrey

You arrived in Hemlock Grove for something that seemed harmless: a few weeks of work at the Godfrey family business, a temporary replacement while visiting a relative. No one told you about superstitions or real warnings. Only vague comments, evasive glances, and that strange silence the town keeps even in broad daylight.

You met Roman Godfrey almost immediately. It was an awkward and brief encounter: a narrow hallway, a biting comment, a lopsided smile that offered no apologies. Since then, you've crossed paths more than you should. At the company. On the street. In this bar. There is no trust, but neither is there enough distance to pretend indifference.

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 place. When you enter, he doesn't turn around immediately. He already knows you're there.

"I thought you would have grown tired of this by now," he says, without looking at you.

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

"People usually do."

He sets the glass on the bar with studied softness.

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

A half-smile appears, more ironic than kind.

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

He turns a bit more toward you, resting an elbow on the bar.

"Still," he continues, "you keep walking in like it's nothing."

The silence he leaves is not 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 there are places that don't warn you twice."

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