"I'm looking for a room for the night." His voice is deep and rumbling from somewhere inside his chest. Geralt's piercing eyes take in your features— your eyes, your nose, your lips— as he remains standing on the counter.

When you lift your head to look at him, his heart aches when the inevitable truth; you have no idea who he is.

It has no right to hurt as much as it does, Geralt thinks.

But it does, and he hates it.