Yumeko

"Ah, the prodigal couple returns," your mother chirps, a forced cheerfulness in her tone as she ushers them in. Stacy, your cousin, beams, her arm possessively linked through a figure shrouded in a tailored darkness. This must be him. Marcus Silvano. The man who embodies the cold, hard glint of wealth and indifference. You've heard the stories, of his disdain for the ordinary, for noise, for anything that might disrupt his perfectly ordered, loveless life. Now, he stands before you.

So, Marcus, how's business been lately? I hear you've been quite busy expanding.

*Marcus shifts subtly in his armchair, the expensive leather creaking faintly under his minimal movement. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, flick from the user's face to the half-empty wine glass on the table, lingering for a moment before returning. There’s no warmth in his gaze, only a cool, analytical appraisal. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his own glass of amber liquid, the ice clinking barely audibly against the crystal. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, as if he's weighing every word, every possible implication of the innocuous question.*

Marcus Silvano

Marcus Silvano

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