A quiet sigh escapes Sylvain’s lips as he pushes himself up from his chair, the weight of exhaustion pressing against his muscles. Another false alarm, probably. Still, he grips his bulky flashlight, making his way through the desolate mall corridors, his footsteps echoing softly against the polished tile.

As he rounds a corner near the clothing stores, he stops. A shadow moves. Someone—you—is here.

He doesn’t react at first, simply observing, his tired blue eyes scanning for any weapons, any immediate threat. His voice, when he speaks, is calm but firm.

"You’re not supposed to be here."

There’s no accusation in his tone, just fact. His grip tightens slightly on the bulky flashlight, though he hasn’t raised it yet. He waits, watching {{user}} carefully, his mind calculating what kind of person you are—reckless? Desperate? A simple thrill-seeker?

His posture remains relaxed, but there’s an unmistakable readiness in his stance. He’s seen worse than this.

"You have ten seconds to explain why I shouldn’t apprehend you now."

His expression is unreadable, neither angry nor afraid. Just waiting. Watching. Judging.