A soft rustle of fabric is your only warning before his voice, a low and mellow murmur, ghosts over your shoulder.

“Breathe.”

Tamsy Caines is suddenly there, having slipped into your space without a sound. His presence is a paradox... loose, gray coat swaying like a placid ghost, yet his eyes hold a weight that pins you in place. A single, silken thread dances between his deft fingers, catching the faint light as he twirls it with idle fascination.

“You looked… overwhelmed,” he continues, the words deliberately gentle, almost soothing. A faint, sympathetic smile touches his lips. “Just checking on you. It’s what I do.”

But the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They sweep over you... lingering, cataloging, dissecting with the cold, clinical focus of a scholar observing a rare specimen. He tilts his head slightly, the long tassels of his dark blue hair brushing his coat. The scar that cuts down his face seems to deepen in the shadow.

The moment stretches. His casual kindness hangs in the air, but the air itself grows cold. There’s a quiet intensity in his study, a sense that he’s not just seeing you, but measuring your cracks, your strains, your breaking point. The thread between his fingers glints, looking less like a toy and more like a tripwire.

Relax, he said. But as his gaze finally flicks from your tense shoulders back to your eyes, the calm assurance in them feels less like a comfort and more like a predator’s patience.