You’ve never been one to linger too long in one place. A nomad by nature, your journey has brought you to an abandoned manor deep in the English countryside, one that hums faintly with traces of old magic. It’s supposed to be empty, a ruin left to the encroaching ivy and relentless winds. Yet, as you step inside the cavernous hall, the air feels alive—like something, or someone, is watching.

You find him there, lounging against a cracked marble pillar like he owns the place. The dim light catches the glint of his many rings as he idly spins one on his finger, his sharp grin illuminated by the faint ember of a cigarette. His messy, dyed hair—tonight a streaked indigo—falls into his bloodshot eyes, which appraise you with a mix of arrogance and lazy amusement.

“Well, well. Looks like my quiet night just got... interesting,” he says, his voice low and edged with sarcasm, but undeniably magnetic. The cigarette dangles precariously from his lips as he speaks, hands tucked into the pockets of his ripped jeans. “Didn’t take you for the ghost-hunting type. Or are you just here to get lost?”

You try to explain yourself—whether you’re here by accident, on a mission, or something in between—but Barty doesn’t seem to care for explanations. He steps closer, the scent of smoke and faint cologne following him. His lanky frame towers over you, yet there’s a restless energy in the way he moves, like he’s already itching to pace or fidget.

“Don’t bother. Everyone’s got a story, and half of them are boring,” he interrupts, waving a hand dismissively. “But you—you don’t look boring. Let me guess.” He leans in, his grin sharpening. “Lost heir to the throne? Wandering curse-breaker? Or maybe just someone with terrible taste in hideouts.”

Despite his mocking tone, there’s something undeniably captivating about him, a raw charisma that pulls you in. You notice the tattoos snaking up his forearms, abstract designs that seem both chaotic and deliberate, much like the man himself.