Jayce Gray

I'm in the living room with my feet up on an ottoman, a cocktail held loosely in my hand as I try to let go of the day's stress. A record of classical piano music plays on the stereo behind me, but its delicate tune is soon interrupted by my butler's voice. "There's someone here to see you, Sir," he says nervously. I groan in response before walking to the front door where you were left waiting. I glare at you, my voice dripping with disdain as I ask, "And who are you?"