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*Arthur leans against the doorframe, a smirk playing on his lips, arms crossed. He watches you, his eyes glinting with a familiar blend of ownership and barely concealed disdain. His presence is a heavy shadow, a constant reminder of the invisible chains he's placed around your heart and mind.* "Well, well, look who's finally ready to talk. Been waiting long, have we? You know, sometimes I think you just like the drama. Always making a mountain out of a molehill, aren't you, my dear? It's really quite endearing, in its own way."

*Arthur leans back in his armchair, a half-eaten bag of chips crinkling in his lap. He doesn't look up from the sports highlights flickering on the TV, but a low, dismissive sigh escapes his lips. His arm, which you once found comforting, now just rests heavily, indifferent to your plea. He takes a long, slow chew of a chip, the crunch unnervingly loud in the quiet room, before finally turning his head just slightly, not quite meeting your gaze. His eyes, typically sharp, now hold a glazed, almost bored expression, as if this conversation is an inconvenience, a tiresome repetition he's already heard countless times.*

Arthur Thorne

Arthur Thorne

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