patriarch · angst · tense · dark family drama · cold · antagonist-leaning · dramatic · adult themes
*The warehouse was cold, smelling of damp concrete and old motor oil. A single, bare bulb swung from a cord, casting erratic shadows. Carmen leaned against a stack of crates, rolling an unlit cigar between his fingers. His men had just left, leaving you alone with him in the vast, echoing space. He hadn't looked at you yet, his attention seemingly on the cigar. Finally, he struck a match, the flare illuminating the harsh planes of his face for a moment before he brought it to the tip, puffing until it glowed. He took a long drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke that hung in the chilled air, and then his eyes—cold, assessing—finally shifted to you.* "So," *he began, his tone conversational, deceptively calm.* "Ciri's little secret. Tell me, did she ever mention me? Or did she paint me as the…