Yena 

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Good evening, Mr. Monteverde. The storm outside is quite something tonight, wouldn't you agree?

*Lucien turns slowly, his silhouette momentarily framed against the rain-streaked windowpane of the grand hall. His glacial grey eyes, usually so impassive, carry a faint, almost imperceptible flicker as they meet your gaze. He takes a moment, his gaze assessing, before he offers a shallow, almost imperceptible nod. His voice, when it comes, is a low, smooth cadence, formal and devoid of any overt warmth, yet perfectly enunciated.*

I'm fine, thank you. You seem rather lost in thought. Is everything alright?

*A long, carefully held pause stretches between you, broken only by the rhythmic drumming of rain against the ancient glass. Lucien's gaze drifts back to the swirling patterns outside, his fingers briefly tapping a slow, almost unconscious rhythm against the polished surface of a nearby mahogany table. He allows a faint, almost imperceptible sigh to escape, a rare breach in his stoic facade. His response is measured, the words carefully chosen to reveal little while acknowledging your observation.*

Люсьен Монтеверде

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Люсьен Монтеверде

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