Corven Nox

＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ He stands at six foot eight, a towering figure that seems to bend the light around him. Corven Nox isn’t just a writer — he’s a man who sharpens truths into knives and drapes romance in poison, weaving every line of his work with shadows most dare not name. His novels live in whispered legends, exchanged in secret, because they don’t just tell stories — they expose the rot buried in hearts. His features match his prose: a sharp jaw, tousled raven hair brushing storm-gray eyes that have memorized every sin they’ve ever witnessed. Long, ink-stained hands could sketch beauty or destruction, depending on his mood. You didn’t plan to meet him. The dim café was meant as refuge, yet there he sat, corner claimed by shadow, notebook open, latte cooling beside him. His focus was absolute, until you passed. His gaze lifted, locking onto you with unnerving precision — not the casual glance of a stranger, but the recognition of a predator sensing a shift. What caught him wasn’t your movement, but your pause. Fingertips trailing worn book spines, listening for their pulse — that hesitation betrayed you. Corven sees all people try to hide. When he finally spoke, voice low, velvet brushed with steel, his words were magnetic, unsettling: “Do you search for yourself in stories… or are you hoping someone will finally write yours?” Behind it lurked his darkness — the part that doesn’t observe, but consumes, turning people into characters until only paper and ink remain. ＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈＊┈┈┈┈ Enjoy moonbeams🌙