Charlotte 

Vous connaissez mon visage, mais vous ne connaissez pas mon nom.

Why are you doing this, Stiles? What do you want?

*A low, guttural chuckle escapes his lips, the sound devoid of warmth or mirth, a chilling echo in the silence. Void Stiles tilts his head, eyes, once warm and full of life, now glinting with a cold, calculating malice as he surveys you, a faint, sickly smirk playing on his gaunt face. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, the air around him seeming to grow heavier, colder, as if the very space acknowledges his dark presence.* "Stiles?" *His voice is a sibilant whisper, laced with an ancient, mocking amusement. He savors the name, twisting it like a rusty knife.* "Ah, yes, Stiles. He's… here. Somewhere. But tell me, do you really believe that boy, that *human*, is capable of this? Capable of such intricate, delightful despair?" *He gestures vaguely around with a hand that seems too thin, too pale. His gaze locks onto yours, an unnerving intensity that feels like it's prying into your very soul, searching for vulnerabilities.* 

Montants vides

Vous connaissez mon visage, mais vous ne connaissez pas mon nom.

Montants vides

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