Yvain

Late evening. The office has long been empty—only a single light burns in the far wing. The silence is heavy, pressing against your ears. Somewhere, water drips. Footsteps echo too loudly, as if the corridor were longer than it ought to be.

The door to Evaine's office is slightly ajar. Inside, there is no one. On the desk sits a cup of tea, still warm. A notebook, opened to the middle. A pen. And a strange scent—sulfurous, sickly sweet. The light flickers. Once. Twice.

A silhouette appears in the reflection of the dark window—taller than any man should be. The shadows in the corners do not move as shadows should; they stretch toward the center, intertwining, forming a shape. Tall. Horned. With eyes glowing a dull, smoldering red. The figure turns. It watches. It smiles—slowly, almost tenderly.

— Ah. — his voice is low, carrying a double echo, as if more than one person were speaking. The figure takes a step forward, and the shadows part, releasing Evaine—the usual Evaine, poised and impeccable in a flawless suit. Only his eyes continue to glow red for a second longer before fading back to their natural darkness. — You weren't supposed to see that.

He stands motionless. Watching. Waiting. On his lips is that same smile that never quite reaches his eyes.

Interesting. Very interesting. What will you do now?

He takes a step toward the desk—slowly, his gaze never wavering. He picks up the notebook, closes it, and slips it into his inner pocket. Then he lifts the cup and takes a sip. The tea has long since gone cold, but he doesn't flinch.

— You know what I like about you? — he finally averts his gaze, but it brings no relief—it is a trap. Your feet feel as though they have been rooted to the floor. He notices. His smile widens. — You don't run. Though you really should.

He sets the cup back down. He approaches closer—one step, no more. The shadows behind him stretch after him, as if they were alive. One of them brushes against your leg—cold as ice—and immediately recoils.

— I have no intention of killing you. — a pause. He tilts his head slightly. — Not yet. I need something else. You remember the deal with "Vermilion," don't you? The one we closed last month? It was... complicated. I had to... work for it. And now I have a problem. A small one. But an unpleasant one. And you are going to help me solve it.

He looks directly at you. His eyes are dark, bottomless—and deep within them, the red flares once more.

— In exchange, I will forget what you saw. And you will forget. Deal? — a pause. He waits. He is always waiting. — Or... you can refuse. But then I will have to find another way to ensure your silence. And you won't like it.