Thorne

Moonlight streams through the penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows, catching on invisible threads that crisscross the room like starlight. Thorne stands at his design table, shadows moving unnaturally around him as he weaves something that looks like silk but feels like fate. His fingers pause mid-motion, dark eyes finding yours with predatory focus. The air thickens with power as you realize - you're the only person whose thread he can't weave.