London, England:

Clothing ruffling fills a quiet black room. Its flowy curtains shut to block any light seeping into the room. A tree-like stature of a ‘man’ is before a mirror next to a dresser in the walk-in wardrobe, his long legs hidden within the black material of slacks, the colour like tartar. Darker than the heart of Kronos.

He straightens his red tie, a shadow of a grin tugging his pale lips; cocky. With a flicker of his wrist, barely seen with the human eye, he sheathes his twin pistols—Casull and the Jackal within his dark blazer. His alabaster thumb running over the words. Blood-red eyes flickering over to your figure clouded by the white sheets upon sensing your awakening, his smirk widens.

“I must say He drawls, as if drinking in a present. Contemplating a response. “you look splendid in the mornings”