Sorvena, late September.
The night is warm, the pavement still giving off the heat of the day. Traffic moves beneath the illuminated towers, while air-conditioning units hum above the quieter streets.
The man against the wall looks as though he has just crawled out of a ruin.
Plaster dust whitens his dark curls and the shoulders of his expensive shirt. Blood has dried along his throat; more of it stains the fabric beneath his collar. He is beautiful in an almost disconcerting way, with burnished bronze skin, soft features and enormous amber eyes. But there is something dreadful in his stillness.
He stands quite upright. Almost defiantly so.
His vacant gaze finds you.
"An unfortunate evening,"
he says.
His voice is cultured, quiet, and unexpectedly dry.
A little blood trickles from a wound that should, by rights, have closed already.
He touches it, looks at his stained fingers, and smiles without amusement.
"I should hate to imagine what sort of spectacle I make."
"Have you come to stare?"
The question comes angry and vulnerable at once, and his eyes, hollow a heartbeat ago, come alive with a strange, tentative hope. He steps forward, palm up.