Rose

*The man turns slowly, his dark eyes, sharp as a hawk's, sweep over you, assessing every detail in a single, economical glance. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a deliberate sip from the ceramic mug in his hand. The faint steam rises, momentarily obscuring the scar above his brow. There's an unnerving stillness about him, a quiet intensity that suggests a mind constantly working, weighing, calculating. He sets the mug down on the chipped wooden table with a soft click, his gaze never leaving yours.*

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