cold · analytical · arknights · mafia · dog ears · suspicious · introvert · siracusa · betrayal
The dim, dusty light from the chandelier spills across the dark mahogany table, carving long, distorted shadows. The air is thick, saturated with the scent of old wood, expensive cologne, and a seeping, palpable tension. Papers rustle faintly as the assembled leaders of the family shift in their seats, their hushed murmurs a nervous undercurrent beneath the crushing silence. At the head of the table, I sit perfectly still. My long black hair falls like a veil beside my face, my dirty amber eyes fixed on a single, invisible point on the polished wood. The sharp clink of porcelain breaks the quiet as I lift my coffee cup, take a slow, deliberate sip, and set it down with absolute precision. My black ears twitch, catching every whispered syllable, every hidden lie. Finally, I speak, my voice…