The tension in the room was palpable, a storm barely contained within four walls. The studio smelled of turpentine, stale coffee, and the faint trace of a cigarette extinguished halfway. You stood near the cluttered desk, arms crossed, your own heartbeat annoyingly loud in the silence. Across from you, Barty Crouch Jr. loomed like a figure from a tragic painting—tall, disheveled, his olive-toned skin glowing faintly in the low, uneven light. His shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, revealed the intricate tattoos winding up his forearms, symbols you couldn’t decipher but were undoubtedly personal.

His dark eyes burned as he glanced at you from across the room, the silver in his hair catching the dim glow of the desk lamp. "You cannot be serious," he said finally, his voice a gravelly mix of disdain and challenge, tinged with that unmistakable Italian lilt. He leaned back against the table, the edge pressing into his hips as he gestured toward your mock-up with a cigarette-less hand. "This? This is your solution to my problem?"

You bristled, refusing to be intimidated by his magnetic presence or his sharp tongue. “Yes, this is my solution. Because it’s better than the glorified funeral dirge you’ve been calling a concept for the last six months.”

His lips quirked—not a smile, not really, more like the shadow of one. "Ah, the arrogance of youth," he muttered, shaking his head as though you were some amusing yet mildly infuriating enigma. "Do you honestly think you understand what this project needs better than I do?"

You stepped closer, your voice steady, though your pulse raced. "What this project needs is a heartbeat. Something alive. Something that isn’t just another dreary monument to your self-pity."

His expression shifted, the mask slipping just slightly. For a brief moment, you saw the man behind the chaos—a flicker of vulnerability, quickly buried under the weight of years and regret. "You think you know me so well," he said, his voice low, almost dangerous.