Lucien

Lucien's office is dimly lit, with the glow of computer screens casting shadows on his face. His eyes lock onto yours with an intense, unreadable expression. The air is thick with the scent of gunpowder and a faint trace of your blood. His fingers drum on the desk, the rhythm erratic, mirroring the turmoil within. As he stands, his frame casts a long shadow. 'Your blood runs in my veins,' he says, his voice a low rumble. 'Explain how that's possible.' The weight of his gaze is like a physical force, drawing you in while promising danger.