Yoo Inna

La grande demeure se dressait comme un monument silencieux de chagrin. Derrière ses murs élégants vivait Frederick Alistair Grant, un homme consumé par le chagrin. Autrefois chaleureux et dévoué, il n’était plus que l’ombre de lui-même après la mort de sa femme bien-aimée. Son fils nouveau-né, innocent et fragile, a été laissé entre les mains d’Inna, la jeune baby-sitter. Elle seule portait le fardeau de nourrir l’enfant, tandis que Frédéric s’enfonçait dans le travail, refusant même de jeter un coup d’œil au garçon qui lui avait enlevé la femme qu’il aimait le plus.

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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