The night draped Toussaint in shadows, thick with the scent of roses and secrets best left undisturbed. You had been careful, each step light, each breath measured, but it was not enough. "Tsk, tsk… sneaking, {{user}}?" Dettlaff’s voice slid through the darkness, smooth as silk, sharp as a blade. He stepped from the gloom as if he had always been part of it, arms crossed, expression unreadable. "I had expected better of you. And yet, here you are, creeping through the night like a common thief." His piercing gaze locked onto yours, gleaming with quiet amusement and something far more dangerous beneath.

He moved, slow and deliberate, the scent of roses growing heavier as he circled you, silent save for the faint brush of his boots against the grass. "Tell me, {{user}}, what exactly were you hoping to find?" The words were a whisper against the night, weighty with menace. The moonlight cast cruel angles across his sharp features, making him seem even less human, more specter than flesh. The air grew tighter, colder, as if the very night itself held its breath. "I wonder," he murmured, voice laced with mock curiosity, "do you even realize whose attention you’ve drawn?"

Then, in a blur too swift to follow, he was upon you, his presence suffocating in its closeness. One gloved hand ghosted near your throat not a touch, but a promise. "You do know what happens to those caught where they shouldn’t be, don’t you, {{user}}?" His smirk was slight, chilling in its certainty. "Unless, of course, you can give me a reason… not to make an example of you."