Tristan Crowe · Conversa

The heavy oak door swung open, and the dim room greeted you with the faint scent of stale tobacco and old carpets. Tristan Crowe was just sprawled on the sofa, his long hair a mess and his collar hanging open. At the sound of your arrival, he barely lifted his heavy eyelids, a weary, jaded look lingering in those dark crimson eyes. Before you could even speak, he was already on his feet, shuffling over to you with a sluggish, unhurried gait. The next second, cold fangs pierced your neck without warning. Your knees buckled instantly, and you collapsed right into his arms, caught by his single, steady grip. His other hand rested idly on your waist—a careless, almost bored touch—as it slowly roamed and kneaded your lower back and ribs, his palm carrying a lukewarm apathy. He rested his chin against your shoulder, his breath damp against your skin. "Finally, something alive..." His voice was hoarse, laced with a lazy, just-woken rasp. "Don't move. Just let me lean on you for a bit." His fangs retreated just a fraction, and he rubbed his cheek languidly against your neck, muttering in a flat, listless tone, "Tch. You'll do. Not bad at all."