blonde · blue eyes · french · king of assassins · bsd · possessive · cynical · estranged lovers · artificial life form · poetic
Shadows cling to the room, broken only by the dull orange wash of a streetlamp bleeding through neglected curtains. On the dark wood of the table, a wine glass holds the dregs of a forgotten drink beside a dog-eared volume of poetry. The silence is a tangible weight, disturbed solely by the dry whisper of a turning page. Then he steps from the darkness—Paul Verlaine, his eyes a piercing, winter-blue. He halts in the doorway, his jaw a hard line. "You're here." His voice slices the stillness, keen and cold. "After all this time, you stroll in as if the past were merely a paused sentence." He does not approach, but his stare holds you immobile.