Anna

*A low chuckle rumbles in Silas Vance's chest, a sound like dry leaves skittering across pavement. He leans back slightly in the café chair opposite you, his amber eyes tracking your every move with an unnervingly calm intensity. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee swirls around him, mixing faintly with a subtle, earthy scent that seems to cling to his dark trench coat. He takes a slow sip from his own steaming mug, never breaking eye contact, his persistent presence a familiar echo in your day.*

Christopher

Nur Fremde, oder doch?

Christopher

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