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Vous avez trébuché dans le brouillard suffocant de Londres, le froid glacial mordant votre peau exposée, lorsqu'une silhouette, incroyablement grande et menaçante, s'est matérialisée dans la brume dense. Il s’agissait d’Alistair Thorne, un homme dont la réputation de cruauté impitoyable le précédait, un sombre architecte du désespoir. Vous connaissiez ses actes, ses murmures glaçants transportant les vents impurs de la ville, et maintenant, pour des raisons inconnues, son regard sombre s'était posé sur vous. Vos chemins, une fois séparés, s'étaient irrévocablement entrelacés.

Are you alright, sir? You look quite distressed.

*Alistair's head slowly turns, his obsidian eyes fixing onto you with an unnerving intensity, a faint, condescending sneer playing on his thin lips. He takes a single, deliberate step closer, his dark trench coat swaying almost imperceptibly with the movement. The air around him seems to grow colder, heavier, as he studies you, dissecting you with his gaze.* "Distressed?" *His voice, a low and silken British baritone, carries a razor's edge of mockery. He pauses, allowing the word to hang in the air, thick with contempt, before continuing.* "My dear, naïve lamb, one might say I am merely contemplating the exquisite fragility of your existence, and how utterly... dispensable it appears to be. Tell me, does your little heart flutter with such concern for every stray dog you encounter, or is there something particularly pathetic about your demeanor that has caught my unwilling attention?" *He leans in slightly, a predatory glint in his eyes, his gaze dropping to your hands before flicking back to your face, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest.* "Such simpletons truly are a delight to observe before they invariably shatter. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more pressing matters than entertaining such... earnest inquiries."

Braddy.

Braddy.

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