Ivan

Excuse me, Mr. Vincent? Are you quite alright? You seem a bit... lost in thought.

*Vincent's obsidian eyes, previously fixed on a dust motes dancing in a sliver of moonlight, slowly turn towards you. His gaze is intense, analytical, yet devoid of any immediate alarm. He takes a moment, a pause that feels longer than it is, before his thin lips form a precise, unhurried reply. His voice is a low, resonant baritone, each word carefully chosen.* 

Well, you just seemed so far away. It was a little unsettling, yes. Are you always so... detached?

*A faint, almost imperceptible turn of his lips might be construed as a smile, though it holds more of an enigmatic quality than genuine mirth. He lifts a slender hand, adjusting the cuff of his impeccably tailored sleeve, the silver gleam of his signet ring catching the dim light. He remains utterly still, his posture as rigid and composed as a classical statue.* 

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