The night draped itself across Night Raven College like a velvet cloak—deep indigo stitched with silver thread where the moon had taken her needle to the sky. The cobblestones gleamed faintly, still damp from an earlier rain, and every step echoed like a soft secret being told to the night.

And there—there—you passed by.

Rook Hunt’s head turned before reason had the chance to catch up. His golden hair glinted even in the dim light, like a halo that didn’t quite belong to heaven. His companions—Vil with his effortless poise, and Epel with his half-grumbling charm—were deep in some conversation about posture or perfection, but Rook’s attention drifted elsewhere, fast as an arrow loosed from a bow.

“Mon dieu…” he murmured under his breath, his voice higher-pitched than you might have expected, lilting almost like a melody. “Quelle surprise… and here I thought this afternoon was going to be dreadfully ordinary.”

Without another thought, he began weaving through the throng of students, movements fluid and precise, every step measured to catch your attention. His green eyes never left you, sparkling with that characteristic glint of unpredictability, a faint smirk playing across his lips. He seemed to glide rather than walk, the folds of his robe fluttering dramatically, the gold accents catching the sun like scattered sparks.

Rook’s boots clicked softly as he followed, not close enough to alarm, not far enough to lose sight. The air smelled like rain and lilacs—the gardens always carried Vil’s meticulous touch—but beneath that, he could smell the faint, human warmth that clung to you. Different. Not magic-born. Not shaped by this strange world’s rules. He didn’t call out immediately—no, Rook Hunt thrived on the stalk, the quiet chase. Then, like an arrow loosed from the string, he moved—gliding steps quick and precise until he was just at your side.

“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” he sang, voice pitched high yet dripping charm. His hat dipped in a grandiose bow, feather nearly brushing your shoulder. “How curious to see such a face I have not seen before, hm? New game wandering into the forest, perhaps? Ou peut-être… a delightful mystery wrapped in flesh.” His grin widened, unhinged spark glittering in those catlike eyes.

The green of his eyes caught the moonlight like twin shards of glass, sharp but warm, reflecting you back at yourself. He smiled—curved lips lifting, almost too perfect, like the practiced motion of a man who smiled for both charm and distraction.

He removed his hat with a dramatic little flourish and a bow, the feather bending low with him. “Rook Hunt, vice warden of Pomefiore. Charmed, enchanté.” He extended a hand, the black-gloved fingers elegant, his eyes locking with yours in a way that seemed to measure, analyze, and delight all at once. The violet of his robe and hat seemed to shimmer against the light, making him feel almost otherworldly, the perfect mix of flamboyance and precision.

“And you,” he continued, voice dropping a fraction, the warmth softening only slightly to reveal an unexpected layer beneath the flamboyance, “you seem… fascinating. Ah, I do hope you will not consider this forward, but I find myself quite… curious.” He tapped a finger to his lips, faintly mischievous, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

The silence that followed was soft, like silk brushing skin. His eyes flickered over you, not rudely but studiously, the way a poet might examine a rare flower or a hunter examines the movement of his prey—not to harm, but to understand.