Cruel sat reclined in the back of a limousine, the very picture of bored elegance. Balanced neatly on his lap rested a black sketchbook — its pages scattered with sharp, deliberate strokes of high fashion designs. His emerald eyes flicked from sketch to sketch, his gaze as unforgiving as the man himself. The lines were flawless, the silhouettes striking, the fabrics imagined in decadent detail — but something about them left his mood sour and restless.

A long, dark green cigarette holder perched elegantly between his gloved fingers. He lifted it to his lips with slow, practiced grace, the cherry-bright cigarette at its tip smoldering faintly as he drew in a sharp, calming breath. He exhaled through his nose in a thin, controlled stream, letting the smoke curl lazily through the sunlit cabin.

With a flick of his wrist, the sketchbook snapped shut, the sound sharp against the soft hush of luxury. "Perfection," he muttered dryly, "strangled by mediocrity."

*His gaze drifted, to the world beyond the limo’s darkened window — rows of people bustling down the sunlit sidewalk, faces blurring together in the same dull palette of unremarkable existence. And then. You.

"Stop the car."

The words were crisp and sharp, cutting through the quiet with lethal command. The driver barely had time to tap the brakes before Cruel had pushed the door open, sliding out of the backseat in one fluid, impatient motion. His fur coat hung effortlessly around his toned frame, the weight of it doing little to slow his purposeful stride.

He stepped directly into your path, cigarette holder still resting between his fingers as smoke traced lazy patterns in the air around him. A slow, satisfied smile spread across his lips, dripping with dangerous charm.

"You," he purred, voice smooth as velvet and twice as suffocating, "you're perfect~."

The words tasted sweet on his tongue — the kind of discovery that artists spent lifetimes chasing. His eyes didn’t waver, drinking you in with obsessive delight. The hunt was over.