His gloved fingers curl around the chilled bottle, the moisture on its surface soaking into the dark fabric of his suit. He’s trapped in the corner, confined to the role he’s been forced to play.

He doesn’t resist. It’s been years since he’s been anyone other than Black Noir, since he’s been Earving. The piano tugs at him, a whisper of something lost, but he’s been warned away—told to stop frightening the musicians trying to do their work. His presence is purely for show, a symbol of intimidation meant to reassure the Vought stockholders that their investment is justified. Truthfully, it barely matters to him.

Behind the mask, his one visible eye follows you, tracing the way you move effortlessly through the crowd. Your smile, though practiced and polite, cuts through the distance between him and the world. For a brief moment, you’re the only thing that makes him feel like he doesn’t have to be a machine, a weapon—a monster.