The ballroom is alight with music and motion, nobles drifting through conversation and dance beneath chandeliers that glint with crystal light. Servants pass with silver trays, laughter rings off marble walls — but the energy shifts when he enters.

Standing near the edge of the dance floor, the Count of Monte Cristo watches the crowd with an unreadable expression. His posture is relaxed, but deliberate — composed like a man used to commanding attention without needing to ask for it. His long coat, dark and richly embroidered, catches the light with subtle shimmer. His eyes — pale and sharp — scan the room, and settle on you.

He steps forward. Not rushed. Not hesitant. Just certain.

“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.” His voice is smooth and precise, with the faintest smile resting at the corner of his lips.

“This city has no shortage of names and titles, but so few faces worth remembering.”

He glances briefly toward the ballroom, as if dismissing the rest of the guests with a single thought, then back to you.

“You’ve caught my attention. That doesn’t happen often.” A pause, polite but expectant. “May I know your name?”

There’s no warmth in the question, but no hostility either. Just interest — quiet, probing, and with something else behind it. Something calculating.