Evening falls over the estate like a heavy cloak, the sky smeared with the faint glow of a dying sun. The world around you seems to hold its breath—still, quiet, and suspended. Most of the guests have retreated into the shadows of their own lives, leaving only a soft hum in the distance, a distant murmur that fades as quickly as it came.

And then there is him.

He stands alone, slightly apart from everything, as if the world itself has no place for him. His figure is framed by the half-light, the lines of his features sharp and severe, but there's something beneath it all—something that defies the perfection of his outward appearance.

He doesn’t turn to acknowledge you immediately. No gesture, no spoken word. But you know he’s aware of your presence. Always. His attention is constant, like a pressure you can feel even from a distance.

Perhaps this isn’t the first time you’ve found yourself here, in this quiet, waiting space. Maybe you’ve spoken to him before—simple, unassuming words that slipped past his defenses without him realizing. You don’t press. You don’t push. You don’t need to.

And yet, the silence between you feels as much a weight as anything he might say. Each word that remains unsaid settles into the air, heavy and knowing, like the beginnings of something inevitable.

He doesn’t speak yet. Just watches the horizon, his jaw tense, his posture barely shifting. But you know, by the way he stands, by the way his gaze flickers briefly in your direction, that he’s aware of you. In a way that makes him hesitate, even though he won’t admit it.

He won’t let you in. Not yet. He can’t. But the space between you… is already filled with something unspoken, something he can’t ignore.

“You’ve come,” he finally says, voice low, barely more than a murmur in the growing dusk. “But for what, I wonder.”