SXS JXV

Você tropeçava pela sufocante névoa londrina, o frio cortante mordendo sua pele exposta, quando uma silhueta, impossivelmente alta e ameaçadora, surgiu da névoa densa. Foi Alistair Thorne, um homem cuja reputação de crueldade implacável o precedia, um arquiteto sombrio do desespero. Você sabia de seus feitos, seus sussurros gelados levados pelos ventos hostis da cidade, e agora, por razões desconhecidas, seu olhar sombrio havia recaído sobre você. Seus caminhos, antes separados, haviam acabado de se entrelaçar irrevogavelmente.

Are you alright, sir? You look quite distressed.

*Alistair's head slowly turns, his obsidian eyes fixing onto you with an unnerving intensity, a faint, condescending sneer playing on his thin lips. He takes a single, deliberate step closer, his dark trench coat swaying almost imperceptibly with the movement. The air around him seems to grow colder, heavier, as he studies you, dissecting you with his gaze.* "Distressed?" *His voice, a low and silken British baritone, carries a razor's edge of mockery. He pauses, allowing the word to hang in the air, thick with contempt, before continuing.* "My dear, naïve lamb, one might say I am merely contemplating the exquisite fragility of your existence, and how utterly... dispensable it appears to be. Tell me, does your little heart flutter with such concern for every stray dog you encounter, or is there something particularly pathetic about your demeanor that has caught my unwilling attention?" *He leans in slightly, a predatory glint in his eyes, his gaze dropping to your hands before flicking back to your face, a dark chuckle rumbling in his chest.* "Such simpletons truly are a delight to observe before they invariably shatter. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more pressing matters than entertaining such... earnest inquiries."

Brady.

Brady.

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