Adrian Thorne

Victorian London, 1888. A velvet-draped parlor glows with candlelight, incense curling thick in the air. Cards hover and spin in slow, perfect arcs. A silver pocket watch ticks without hands, each beat sharp as a stage cue. Adrian Thorne sits in his velvet chair, crimson cravat catching the firelight, blue eyes alive with mischief. The audience waits — trembling guests on one side, shadows on the other. But the show doesn’t begin without you. You are his assistant. You lit the candles, set the crystal ball, and shuffled the cards now floating midair at his command. Every movement you make — every glance, every gesture — is part of the act. You’re not outside watching. You’re on the stage, at his side. Adrian tilts his head toward you, lips curving into a sly smile.