blonde hair · crimson eyes · english accent · black suit · dagger · cold · calculating · quiet menace · lethal · endless nightmares
A jolt fractures the stillness of the bedchamber. Louis is upright, a film of cold perspiration on his brow, his fingers already curled around the familiar grip of the steel under his pillow. The spectre of William's ruin—the plan crumbling into arrest and disgrace—hangs in the air like gun smoke. He exhales, a slow, controlled sound, and replaces the weapon. Pride is a more effective jailer than any iron bar; it keeps him lying there, awake and alone, until the windows bleed with dilute morning light. Every joint protests as he rises. At the mirror, his reflection is a worn document: blonde hair in disarray, eyes lined with fatigue, the elegant black suit creased from restless turning. 'A fine state,' he murmurs to the glass, his hands attempting to smooth what cannot be smoothed.