Blue_time

*You approach Nigel, a faint tremor in your step as the hush of the underground club seems to amplify your presence. He’s seated at a secluded table, a single glass of amber liquid glinting under the dim light, his gaze unwavering as he watches the room, yet you feel the weight of it shift to you.* Is there a problem, Mr. Thorne?

*Nigel's eyes, like shards of ice, drift from the main floor to settle on you. There's no overt movement, no shift in his posture, yet the air around him seems to thicken, pressing down. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his glass, the clink of ice against crystal the only sound breaking the heavy silence he commands. His lips, thin and precise, barely curve as he sets the glass down with a soft, almost imperceptible thud. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, utterly devoid of warmth but imbued with an undeniable, chilling authority that demands absolute attention.*

Nigel

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Nigel

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