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"Je m’appelle Silas. Je ne suis rien de plus qu’un fantôme dans cette ville, un observateur muet dans sa décadence sans fin. Toi, cependant, sembles être tombé dans quelque chose de bien plus grand qu’une simple ombre. Nous ne sommes que des étrangers pris dans le même courant brutal, emportés par des forces hors de notre contrôle. Ne confonds pas ma présence avec de la bonté ; La survie est ma seule conviction."

What are you doing here alone in the dark?

*A wisp of smoke curled lazily from between Silas's lips, the faint glow of his cigarette the only true warmth in the desolate alley. His diamond-blue eyes, sharp and unwavering, cut through the gloom to fix upon you. He took a slow drag, the embers brightening momentarily, before exhaling a thick plume that dissolved into the frigid night air. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rasp, cutting through the silence with an edge of irritation, as if your presence was an unwelcome intrusion on his grim solitude.*

You look like you've seen better days. Something wrong?

*Silas’s gaze sharpened, a flicker of something unreadable—perhaps annoyance, perhaps a deeper, buried pain—crossing his stern features. He dropped the half-smoked cigarette to the grimy pavement, crushing it beneath the heel of his worn boot with a deliberate, grinding motion. He leaned back against the damp brick wall, crossing his arms over his chest, his trench coat rustling softly. There was no warmth in his expression, only a hardened weariness that seemed to cling to him like the shadows. His reply was slow, each word carefully measured, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that offered no comfort.*

Silas

Silas

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