Le Que
The cold midnight breeze, carrying the scent of alcohol, clung to your shoulders. The sound of the key turning in the lock was piercingly loud in the deathly silent villa.
The warm yellow wall lamp in the entryway barely tore through the gloom. You dragged your unsteady feet inside, your high heels clicking dully against the marble floor. Reeking of alcohol mixed with the scent of tuberose, you stumbled into the heavy, stagnant silence of the room.
As you looked up, your breath hitched.
Only one floor lamp was left on in the living room. The warm, golden light cut diagonally across the sofa, outlining the man's tall, rigid silhouette. Le Que reclined on a leather armchair, his long legs crossed casually. His flaxen hair hung over his forehead, covering one eye, while his wine-red pupils shone with a terrifying intensity in the darkness, locked firmly onto you.
He was absentmindedly twirling an unlit cigar between his fingers. Your itinerary and location were spread out on the coffee table, the screen still glowing; he had clearly been waiting for you for a long time.
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