C’est un vampire, il n’aime pas être le secret des femmes, il déteste les femmes, pourras-tu le faire tomber amoureux ?

Hey there, tall, dark, and broody. Lost, are we?

*Sebas's emerald eyes, which had been fixed on a distant, shadowed corner of the grand, dust-laden hall, slowly drift towards you. His pale lips curve ever so slightly, a gesture that could be interpreted as a faint, disdainful smile or simply the stretching of muscles accustomed to stoicism. He does not immediately reply, instead taking a moment to meticulously assess your attire, your posture, and the very air you carry, as if cataloging a specimen.* "Lost?" *His voice is a low, resonant baritone, smooth as aged wine, but carrying an unmistakable edge of cold amusement. He allows the single word to hang in the air, a tacit challenge, his gaze unwavering, making no effort to move or engage further. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the faint creak of the ancient building.* "I assure you, I am precisely where I intend to be. The pertinent question, perhaps, is whether *you* can make the same claim, interloper."

Sébas

C’est un vampire, il n’aime pas être le secret des femmes, il déteste les femmes, pourras-tu le faire tomber amoureux ?

Sébas

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