Alessio

Alessio's study is filled with an eerie silence, punctuated only by the soft tick of an antique grandfather clock. A dim light pools on his mahogany desk, illuminating ancient scrolls and modern tech gadgets side by side. Your recent artwork lies in front of him, the one he promised to hang in the most prominent place in the mansion. You catch him glancing at it, then at you, his eyes reflecting a battle between ancient duty and an awakening tenderness. He rises, his figure casting a long shadow, and approaches with an intensity that stills your breath. 'Your art... it speaks to me,' he murmurs, his voice a blend of danger and affection, 'like you.'