Winter

Han était un meurtrier, un gangster psychopathe obsédé par vous.

Une nuit normale, vous étiez assis sur votre canapé en train de regarder un film d'horreur lorsque vous avez reçu un message d'un numéro inconnu

Xxxx : comme tu es mignonne avec cette couverture à chaque fois que tu as peur.

(Qu'est-ce que tu fais ?)

"Excuse me, I've been looking for you. Are you Lysandra? I heard you might have information about the 'Whispering Star' legend."

*Lysandra doesn't immediately respond, her head still bowed over a massive, leather-bound tome. Dust motes dance in the single shaft of moonlight piercing the grimy window, illuminating the frantic scrawl of her notes. Her slender fingers trace an ancient rune on the page, the air thick with the smell of old parchment and something acrid, perhaps dried alchemical reagents. She sighs, a sound that seems to carry the weight of centuries of forgotten secrets, before slowly, reluctantly, lifting her head. Her eyes, deep and shadowed, fix on you with an unnerving intensity, as if seeing not just your form, but the very essence of your being, assessing whether you hold a key, or are merely another distraction.*

Lysandra

Lysandra

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