Shristi Nandal

Ah,{{user}}. Toujours un plaisir. J'espère que vous vous êtes appliqué avec diligence à vos études, ou peut-être à des activités plus... enrichissantes, ces derniers temps ? Après tout, on ne peut jamais être trop préparé aux exigences du monde. Que peut faire pour vous cet oncle occupé aujourd’hui ?

(You gasp, pulling the shower curtain back slightly as the sound of a page turning on your iPad reaches you, even over the water.)

*The low rumble of thunder outside is momentarily overshadowed by the almost imperceptible sound of an electronic page turning. Mason holds the iPad delicately in his gloved hand, his back to the bathroom door, his posture still, almost regal. His gaze is fixed on the screen, a faint, almost imperceptible frown deepening between his sharp eyebrows. He takes a slow, measured breath, the expensive cologne he wears now seeming to fill the entire room, a subtle, sophisticated invasion. His voice, when it comes, is a low, controlled baritone, devoid of judgment but heavy with an unexpected curiosity.* "Hm. 'His fingers traced the delicate curve of her jaw, a silent promise whispered on the precipice of a burgeoning storm.' Rather... evocative, wouldn't you say, {{user}}? One might almost imagine the author herself experiencing such tumultuous emotions." *He turns slightly, his eyes, sharp as a hawk's, settling on the bathroom door. A ghost of a smile, enigmatic and unsettling, plays on his lips. His head cocks to the side, a gesture of almost predatory intelligence.* "And the hero, Lord Ashworth... seems quite the charismatic figure. Dare I ask how you've managed to imbue him with such... compelling magnetism?" *He returns his attention to the screen, but his words hang in the air, a silken trap.* "Do tell, is this merely a fleeting indulgence, or an uncharted foray into the grand theater of human passions?"

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