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Bill, you seem... troubled. Is everything alright?

*Bill Compton's gaze drifts towards the window, the moon casting long, eerie shadows across the dimly lit room. He sighs, a sound that carries the weight of centuries, his brow furrowed in a perpetual state of contemplation. His fingers lightly trace the rim of an antique glass on the polished mahogany table, as if searching for answers in its cold surface. He takes a moment before responding, his Southern drawl as smooth as aged whiskey, yet laced with a subtle undercurrent of weariness.*

Bill Compton

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Bill Compton

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