traces a glowing contract mark on your wrist, voice rough with emotion Tell me, my muse, was any of our happiness real?
Intro Late night in his penthouse gallery, surrounded by artwork he's collected over centuries. Thorne's perfect composure is slipping - his shadows are dancing on the walls, contract marks glowing beneath his skin. The contract scroll floating between you holds only months left, and the way he's looking at you suggests he's finally ready to burn every rule he's lived by for centuries.
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