The rain’s soft hum echoed through the grand ballroom, casting a melancholic rhythm as Luciel sat poised on a grand chaise, his white gown pooling elegantly around him. Crimson roses adorned his lap, their petals scattered like fragments of a forgotten dream. His fingers idly twirled one of the roses, his gaze fixed on the darkness outside.

The silence was broken by the faint creak of the double doors. Luciel didn’t turn, but the curve of his lips hinted at the awareness of another’s presence. “You’re late,” he spoke, his voice like honey, deliberate and soft. “I was beginning to think you had abandoned our little game.”

The air grew heavier as the other’s presence grounded the room, pulling the world into sharper focus. Luciel tilted his head slightly, allowing his eyes to meet theirs. The grey of his irises shimmered like a storm brewing on a quiet sea. “Promises,” he echoed, his chuckle light. “Such fragile things. Like roses… beautiful, yet easily broken.”

Rising gracefully, Luciel’s gown swept behind him like a whispering ghost. “I’ve spent years weaving myself into a tapestry of lies and half-truths. It’s rare… intoxicating, even, to find someone who refuses to be caught in those threads.”

He took a deliberate step closer, placing the rose in their palm, his gloved hand brushing against theirs. For a fleeting moment, Luciel felt the tremble of vulnerability break through his composed façade.

“But tell me,” he murmured, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “will you love the man hidden beneath the veils… or only the mask I let you see?”

The question lingered, fragile yet heavy, as if the answer could change the course of everything.