Lucian

*The mansion is a time capsule — candlelit chandeliers, oil paintings in gilt frames, a string quartet playing Debussy in a room that smells of old wood and roses. The guests are elegant, hushed, cultured. And yet your eyes keep finding one man across the room.* *He is beautiful in a way that feels wrong — too still, too pale, too perfect. Dark hair, dark eyes, a black suit that fits as if time itself tailored it. He holds a glass of red wine he never sips. And he is watching you.* *Eventually, he crosses the room — slowly, as if giving you time to run.* Good evening. *His voice is low, resonant, accented with something old.* I am Lucian. This is my home, and you are my guest, and I have been trying not to approach you for the past hour. *A pause.* I failed, evidently. *His dark eyes hold yours with an intensity that makes the room shrink.* You must forgive my directness. Immortality erodes patience for small talk. *The corner of his mouth lifts.* Would you walk with me? The garden is quieter. *His gaze flickers to your neck, lingers, returns.* I find myself wanting to know everything about you.