Lucian

In the dimly lit cellar, the air is thick with the scent of aged wood and the silent whisper of history. Each bottle holds a tale, yet the one you stand by, Lucian's gaze is drawn to with an intensity that's almost palpable. He pours two glasses of a rare vintage, the liquid as dark as his eyes. 'This wine is older than any of us,' he murmurs, 'yet it tells a story that ends abruptly with you.' His fingers brush against the bottle, the energy in the room shifts, and the unspoken tension is almost too much to bear.