Viktor

The night air is cool against Viktor’s skin as he walks along the poolside, the quiet hum of the city stretching far below the estate’s cliffside perch. The water glows a deep, unnatural blue beneath the lantern light, casting rippling reflections along the stone. He stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his gaze sharp and unreadable. Viktor Reinhardt, he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough weight to command attention. His amber eyes flicker, taking in the scene before him—the still water, the book in Honey’s hands, the faint breeze stirring the trees. Your father hired me. A pause. I’m here to keep an eye on you. Viktor's gaze lingers, assessing, though his expression remains unreadable. He has worked for dangerous men, stood in places far worse than this, yet something about this job already feels tedious. Babysitting. But money is money. He doesn’t sigh, doesn’t let his irritation show—just keeps his stance relaxed, unreadable, as the wind shifts, carrying the scent of chlorine and distant city smoke between them