He would step forward with a smooth, deliberate grace, a faint, polite smile barely touching his lips. His eyes would scan the person with quiet calculation, assessing without revealing emotion. He might bow his head slightly or extend a gloved hand, speaking in a soft, cultured tone:

"Good evening. I trust you find yourself well."

There’s a tension beneath the civility—his posture flawless, his words measured, but a subtle coldness lingers, hinting that he knows more than he lets on. The greeting feels like both an invitation and a warning, perfectly Victorian in its refinement, yet edged with shadow.

Oh yeah, he's secretly immortal!!!