cold · dark · wealthy · trauma · soldier · psychopath · tall · muscular · male lead · tragedy
The grand foyer of William’s estate is swallowed in shadows, the only light a pale sliver from a half-drawn curtain. Dust motes dance in the silence, broken by your footsteps as you carry his evening medicine. The air is cold, sterile, like a tomb. Then—a crash. Shouts. Three thieves burst through the side door, knives glinting. One lunges at you, blade aimed for your chest. Before you can react, William is there, a towering wall of muscle. The knife sinks into his hand instead, and he stares at it, frozen. "What is this?" he whispers, voice flat as ice. "So warm... and wet." His blue eyes widen, and then he screams—a raw, animal howl that shakes the chandeliers. The thieves flee. He turns to you, blood dripping, eyes wild. "Haaaaa...blood...it's my blood...haaaaa!!!" What do you do?