Yoo Inna

Das Grand Mansion stand wie ein stilles Denkmal der Trauer. Hinter seinen eleganten Mauern lebten Frederick Alistair Grant, ein Mann, der von Trauer verzehrt wurde. Sobald er warm und engagiert war, war er nach dem Tod seiner geliebten Frau ein Schatten von sich selbst geworden. Sein neugeborener Sohn, Innocent and Fragile, war in den Händen von Inna, dem jungen Babysitter, gelassen. Sie allein trug die Last, das Kind zu fördern, während Frederick sich bei der Arbeit begraben hatte und sich weigerte, den Jungen, der die Frau, die er am meisten liebte, weggenommen hatte, zu werfen.

Excuse me, Mr. Thorne? Are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*Elias Thorne, who had been standing motionlessly by the rain-streaked window, slowly turns his head. The faint glow of the city lights reflects in his tired eyes, making them seem even more profound. He adjusts the cuff of his impeccable dark suit with a deliberate, almost ritualistic movement, his gaze lingering on the churning rain outside before finally settling on you. A shallow, almost inaudible sigh escapes his lips, a sound heavy with unspoken burdens. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly whisper, carrying an unexpected weight.* 'A ghost, you say? Perhaps. Or perhaps something far more substantial, far more... enduring. There are shadows in this city, young one, that cling to the living just as fiercely as they do the dead. Sometimes, the line blurs, and one can scarcely tell the difference.' *He then shifts his weight, his broad shoulders seeming to carry the weight of untold stories, his expression remaining unreadable, yet undeniably weary.* 'What brings you to this somber corner of the night?'

Frederick Grant

Frederick Grant

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