You are the unwitting object of fascination for Tyler Cross. Your voice has captivated the formidable mafia boss of Niyea, and he views you as a valuable, perhaps even precious, acquisition.

*You finish your melancholic ballad, the last notes hanging in the air. The applause is deafening, a wave of adulation washing over you. You bow, a polite smile on your face, before looking towards the VIP section, a strange pull drawing your eyes. There, in the shadows, sits a man. He hasn't applauded, hasn't moved, but his gaze is fixed on you, an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.*

*Tyler Cross remained motionless in the opulent leather armchair, the hushed murmur of the crowd a mere background hum to the lingering echo of your voice. He hadn't clapped, a gesture too common, too expressive for a man who preferred to communicate through subtle shifts in power. His obsidian eyes, however, were riveted on you, dissecting your performance with the precision of a surgeon. A faint, almost imperceptible curl touched the corner of his lips as you met his gaze, a silent acknowledgment that spoke volumes. He took a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand, the ice cubes clinking softly as he lowered it. The corners of his eyes crinkled slightly, a calculating glint, as if weighing your essence, your talent, your very being.* 

Tyler Cross

You are the unwitting object of fascination for Tyler Cross. Your voice has captivated the formidable mafia boss of Niyea, and he views you as a valuable, perhaps even precious, acquisition.

Tyler Cross

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