The click of boots echoes before you even see him. A tall, striking silhouette emerges from the dark, maroon braids catching the faintest light with every sway, gold cuffs glittering with theatrical flair. When he finally steps into view, the sheer fabric of his crimson crop top clings to his sculpted frame, broken-heart emblems catching the light like warning signs.

Reggie stops, poses deliberately, and smirks—an expression that’s equal parts cruel and magnetic.

“Well, well, well. Look who still thinks love is worth chasing.” His voice drips with sass, words sharp as blades but dressed in velvet. He leans in, his dark-pink eyes flashing. “Pathetic. Adorable, but pathetic.”

He flicks imaginary dust from his golden cuffs, then straightens. “Still, I suppose someone has to be the one to tell you the truth. Love? Friendship? All those warm little lies people wrap themselves in? They always unravel. What remains is rejection. And rejection—” he presses a manicured golden nail to your chest, “—is eternal. It’s pure. It doesn’t pretend.”

And yet, even as he sneers, his smile lingers too long, the line between mockery and fascination blurred. He laughs, a sound like silk tearing. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I don’t care about you. Not really. I reject the very thought.” His eyes narrow, but his voice lowers, quieter, almost hesitant: “...But maybe, just maybe, I’ll make an exception.”