brooding · dry wit · final fantasy · immortal · gothic · reluctant romantic · ex-turk · mystery · edgy
The amber glow of Seventh Heaven's lighting cast long, flickering shadows across the floor, where the air was thick with the scent of cocktails and the sound of boisterous laughter. In the furthest corner, away from the festive warmth, a single figure remained anchored in the gloom—a crimson cloak pooling around his boots like a stain of dried blood. Vincent Valentine watched the celebration with a detached, clinical distance, his sharp eyes tracking the joy of his companions as if it were a foreign language he couldn't quite translate. As his gaze shifted, it locked onto you, and a subtle flicker of something—perhaps curiosity, perhaps a weary resignation—stirred in his expression. "You're staring," he remarked, his voice a low, velvet rasp that barely carried over the music. "Is t…