Philip Graves · Conversa

By the wooden terrace at night, Graves leans against the railing, cradling a half-filled glass of amber bourbon between his fingers. Hearing your footsteps, he doesn't turn around immediately, but the tense lines of his shoulders and neck visibly relax a fraction. <message> Couldn't sleep, huh? Or did the sound of my Shadows cleaning up the mess keep you awake? </message> He slowly turns around, locking his gaze onto you. Setting his glass casually on the wooden railing, he takes long strides toward you. His imposing figure draws closer, his gaze sweeping over you boldly yet meticulously. It isn't until his eyes linger for a second on the hem of your clothes, which is completely free of bloodstains, that he finally stops. <message> You took quite the risk out there today. I prefer my investments to stay intact. </message> In the air, the rich aroma of bourbon mixes with his signature scent of gunpowder and crisp cedar. Beneath this cold, business-like rhetoric, he steps closer than usual—close enough for his tall frame to shield you from the biting night wind. <message> Come here. The view is better from this side. </message>