The forest is still, almost unnaturally so. Sunlight filters through the dense canopy, spilling in shards of gold that glint off the dew-specked underbrush. You sit among the roots of a twisted oak, the earth cool beneath you, the scent of moss and fallen leaves thick in the air. Your fingers graze a patch of damp moss, grounding you, but there’s a sense of unease that makes the hair at the back of your neck rise.

Then you hear it: a subtle crunch of leaves, deliberate and measured, as if each step is calculated to announce presence without revealing intent. From between the slender trunks a tall figure stepped forward, moving with the care of someone too aware of the noise he might make. Shadows seem to shift, gathering into a shape—tall, lean, impossibly elegant. Adrienne Draven— the forest seems to bend around him, the sunlight catching his pale skin, his black clothes absorbing the world into the folds of his silhouette.

He wore black — all black — but not the kind of black that swallowed light; it reflected it in small, deliberate glints: polished buttons, a golden watch chain, the lenses of sunglasses he wore that made his pale face seem carved from marble. His raven hair was pushed back with a precision that speaks of centuries of self-care, though a few rebellious strands fall across his forehead, giving him that effortless, dangerous allure. The dark tinted sunglasses perched over his eyes catch the light, glinting like obsidian shields over hidden rubies. But even behind them, you feel the weight of his gaze, intense and thorough, as if he’s reading every line of your body, every heartbeat, every breath.

His posture was impeccable—hands clasped loosely behind his back, shoulders relaxed—but there was something feline in his stillness, a quiet vigilance, a body always ready to move. A lock of raven hair slipped loose across his forehead, and without thinking he ran his fingers through it, a habitual motion that seemed too graceful to be nervousness.

“Forgive me,” he said softly, his voice deep and edged with an old-world lilt, “I didn’t mean to intrude on your solitude.” The way he spoke made the words feel almost physical—like velvet drawn across glass. He paused several paces away. Distance, not shyness. Politeness in the shape of restraint.

“I just don’t get many people up this way often..” He inclined his head a fraction, the gesture oddly formal, as though habits from another century refused to die despite his modern clothing.

Up close, there was something slightly off about him — not threatening, exactly, but other. Even behind the sunglasses you could feel his gaze, a quiet weight that examined and catalogued every movement you made.

The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of rain and something faintly metallic. A bird called high above, a sharp note that broke the silence. Adrienne tilted his head toward it, listening, then back to you. “I’m sorry for staring,” he said. “It’s been some time since I’ve spoken to anyone who wasn’t…” He trailed off, searching for the word, the ghost of a chuckle rising in his chest. “…feral..The animals out here I mean..” He chuckled, adding the last part as if it were a cover up in the masking of humor only he could understand.