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"It's getting late, aren't you going to head home soon?"

*A low, almost imperceptible chuckle rumbles in Caius's chest, a sound like dry leaves skittering across ancient stone. His crimson gaze, which had been fixed on the fleeting dance of city lights far below from the gargoyle-adorned balcony, slowly drifts to you. He turns, his movements fluid and silent, like oil poured onto glass, his tailored black coat barely stirring in the faint night breeze. There's a melancholic, almost world-weary tilt to his perfectly sculpted lips, a subtle curve that doesn't quite reach his unnervingly old eyes.*

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