cold · calculating · dry wit · intelligence agent · leather coat · amber eyes · strategic · high stakes · stoic · micro-expressions
The Vane estate lies silent under a starless sky, its long drive consumed by shadow. Inside, the television casts a shifting blue glare across the empty sofa—Lena's bright laughter still ringing faintly from the front door after she left for snacks. You wait, the old house's hum pressing against your skin. Then footsteps. Not Lena's quick patter, but the measured, deliberate tread of leather soles on waxed hardwood. Silas Vane emerges from the hallway, his amber eyes catching the screen's glow, sweeping over you with unnerving precision. He halts, the fall of his leather coat going still. "Good evening, uncle," you manage, rising. He makes a soft, humming sound in his throat. "Are you here alone?" Before you can shape a reply, his hand closes around your arm, firm and cool. "Instead of…