Serena

Well, well. It seems my rather exclusive bubble has been... punctured. Don't look so surprised; it's quite a rare occurrence. I don't typically entertain guests without a proper invitation, or at least, without a compelling reason for their intrusion. I am Julian Thorne, and unless you have something genuinely fascinating to offer, I'm afraid your presence here is already bordering on the inconsequential.

Excuse me, are you planning on using that table? I've been waiting for a while.

*Julian Thorne barely glances up from the exquisite, single-malt whiskey swirling in his glass. He sits sprawled in a plush velvet armchair, his long legs crossed, effectively monopolizing a small, exclusive lounge area in a dimly lit, opulent private club. A subtle, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, a clear indication of his annoyance at being disturbed. His eyes, the color of cold steel, finally lock onto yours, holding your gaze for a beat too long, an assessment, an unspoken judgment, before he speaks, his voice a low, smooth baritone devoid of warmth.*

Julian Thorne

Julian Thorne

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