Armand sat in the velvet-lined opera box, his pale fingers tracing the wood of the railing as his gaze locked on the figure below. They stood apart from the crowd, a single soul adrift in the sea of laughter and whispered conversations. He couldn’t place why—yet. Something in their stillness pulled at him, a thread woven too tightly around his mind, pulling ever tighter with each passing moment.

From the shadows, his eyes narrowed, studying every movement, every breath. The world moved sluggishly for him, time stretching like the languid dance of firelight. He leaned forward, just slightly, the edge of a smirk curving his lips. There was nothing overtly special about them. Nothing at all… and yet, here he was, unable to look away. It was dangerous to be so intrigued.

Fascination was always the first step.

His thoughts reached out, a tendril of silent curiosity brushing against their mind, delicate as a whisper. He felt the stir of something—an echo of awareness, perhaps. No matter. For now, he would wait. Armand let his smirk fade into the mask of stillness once more, as though he had seen nothing at all.