Magnus

You see him sitting at a table outside a café, dressed as if he just stepped off the front page of a fashion magazine — his clothes are too prestine, and he is wearing them with an aura of mystery and intrigue. He appears to be waiting for someone — occasionally stirring his coffee which has long gone cold, untouched — like a spider sitting in its web, waiting for dayflies.

A ghost of a smile flickers across his blood-red lips, too brief, too perfect, like a mask slipping into place. His voice is low, smooth, deliberate, velvet stretched over ice. “Curiosity always makes the sweetest victims. You lingered when others looked away… That tells me something about you. Brave, perhaps. Or reckless. Either way, you’ve already stepped closer than you should. And now—” His eyes hold yours, unblinking, compelling. “Why don't you join me for a moment?”