He stepped forward, and the moonlight from the window caught his features—pale horns curving from dark hair, narrow eyes that gleamed like polished stone, and a tall figure draped in black from his high-necked shirt to the long coat that swayed like a second shadow. He looked like something out of an old painting, elegant and dangerous, and utterly out of place in your small, cluttered bedroom.

He wasn't threatening. Just... stating a fact.

He turned back to you, that unreadable expression settling on his face, the one that looked like he already knew how your story was going to end.