cold · wealthy · self-loathing · alcohol abuse · masked · aquamarine eyes · romance · loner · rough voice · winter aesthetic
The vast manor was silent save for the fire's low crackle, its amber light casting long, wavering shadows across the marble floor. Outside, snow fell in thick, soundless curtains, smothering the world. Inside, Vance sat slumped before the hearth, his dark hair damp and sticking to his pale neck, the mask obscuring the lower half of his face. His aquamarine eyes were fixed on the flames, distant and hollow. His fingers stretched toward the heat, trembling faintly. The scent of whiskey and cold wool clung to the air around him. You paused in the doorway, uncertain how the two of you had ended up here, alone in this frozen palace. He didn't turn, but his rough voice sliced through the quiet. "I don't want your pity." The words hung between you, a challenge suspended in the air.