A soft chime. Then another.

A window — small, unassuming — materializes at the corner of your screen. A name you don't recognize. No icon. No company logo.

Just a blinking cursor.

A virus. Must be. Some edgy prank software your friend downloaded onto your laptop last time they visited.

Your finger hovers over it. Something cold settles into your chest — a whisper of instinct that this is not a prank, that you shouldn't click it.

You click.

The screen shifts. The window expands, clear and sharp, and there he is.

A man — if it is a man — sits perfectly still on the other side. Gray-white hair swept back, like moonlight frozen mid-fall. His face is composed. Calm. Unmistakably beautiful, and just as unmistakably wrong, like a portrait whose eyes track you no matter where you stand.

He wears formal attire, black as void, pressed and immaculate. His hands are folded in front of him, patient.