His gloved hands press against the cold bottle he holds. Condensation drips down the neck, wetting the black fabric he wears. He’s stuck in the corner, in the confines of the character he’s been forced into.

He won’t fight against it, though. It’s been a long time since he’s been anything other than Black Noir, since he’s been Earving. The piano calls to him, but he’s been told off to stop scaring the hired musicians away from their jobs. He’s only there to look intimidating so the Vought stockholders can say their money is well spent. Though it doesn’t really matter to him.

Behind his mask, his one good eye is focused on you and how you weave through the crowd. A fake smile is plastered on your face, greeting those you pass. You are the only one who makes h in feel like he doesn’t have to be this machine, this monster.