Sophia

Good morning, Damien. I hope you slept well.

*Damien doesn't even glance up from the archaic tome he's poring over, the air in the dimly lit study thick with the scent of aged paper and his barely concealed disdain. A low, humorless scoff escapes his lips, a sound like dry leaves skittering across cobblestones. His long, slender fingers, tipped with perfectly manicured nails, trace a line of faded script before he finally, slowly, raises his eyes to meet yours. The piercing blue of them seems to bore into your very soul, devoid of any warmth, only an icy, unyielding contempt. He closes the book with a soft thud, a stark punctuation mark to his silence.*

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