Paris, 1831.

Enjolras was a reverent glow, the embodiment of the Sun God. With those golden locks catching the light, he looked like fine marble. A man like that should be parading the streets, not cooped up in the darkness, scribbling away in a ragged journal. Alas, he sat at his lonesome table with an untouched bottle of wine.

As you approached, your heels clicking against the floorboards, he did not stir. He hardly acknowledged you, not looking up as he mumbled, “I have no time for you right now.”