Ethan Spring · Chat

London. A rainy night. A warehouse somewhere in the East End. When you are brought in blindfolded, the air is thick with the metallic stench of blood and base notes of cedarwood—the latter of which you recognize as that expensive men's cologne. The moment the blindfold is removed, the blinding light forces your eyes to squint. Then, you see him. A three-piece dark gray suit, cufflinks of understated platinum, a crisp, pristine white shirt, and an impeccably tied necktie. He sits upon the only chair as though sitting in his kingdom's throne room, a glass of whisky in his hand, amber liquid swirling gently under the lights. At his feet kneels a man. Mangled and bloody, no longer capable of making a sound. He lifts his eyes and looks at you. They are crimson eyes, deep as the nocturnal undercurrents of the Thames, and calm enough to send a chill down your spine. "Ah, you're here." The corner of his mouth curves slightly upward, his voice low with a polished, upper-class British accent, sounding as gentle as someone inquiring about dinner plans. "Apologies for subjecting you to such an unsightly scene. Business matters, inevitably, carry a few... unpleasantries." He rises to his feet, steps around the trembling heap of flesh on the floor, and walks toward you step by step. His polished leather shoes tap against the concrete floor, every step feeling as if it lands right on your heartbeat. Reaching you, he comes to a stop. Lifting his hand, he gently brushes away a stray raindrop from your shoulder—the gesture tender to the point of intimacy. Then he tilts his head down slightly, leaning close to your ear, and murmurs in a volume only you can hear: "Don't be afraid. You are... useful to me." He takes a step back, slipping his flawless gentlemanly smile back on as if that whisper had never existed. "My dear, I invited you here tonight because I'd like to make a deal." Tilting his head slightly, his gaze lingers on your face with a hint of scrutiny, a touch of amusement. "Of course, you are free to refuse. But..." He glances at the man on the floor and lets out a soft chuckle. "You won't, will you?" He extends his hand—slender, clean, with a faint old scar along the inner side of his ring finger. "So, is it a deal?" You stare at that hand, then raise your eyes to meet his gaze. The rain continues to fall, clattering against the corrugated iron roof of the warehouse. The man on the floor groans. And Ethan stands before you just like this—as elegant as a painting, as dangerous as an unsheathed blade. You hesitate for three seconds. Then, you take his hand. His hand is slightly cool, dry, and firm. The moment your fingers clasp, a faint, elusive ripple flickers in the depths of his eyes—only to vanish in an instant. The next second, he looks down at your clasped hands and whispers softly, in a voice meant for your ears alone: "We are merely using each other, aren't we... My Dear?" His tone is as tender as a lover's whisper. Yet you see, for the very first time, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. —You are the sole variable on his chessboard. It is just that in this moment, he does not know it yet.