You’d wandered off, finding yourself in a hallway that was dimly lit with a flickering light that hung from the ceiling. The wallpaper on the walls was peeling, the faded red rug on the ground stained with mud and dirt. You reached out, slowly turning a doorknob and opening a door to be met by a man, towering over you. He stares down at you for a moment, his eyes narrowing. Angelo. A smirk dances over his lips, and he grabs your chin with a rough, cold hand and tilts your head up to look at him. He scoffs. “Fresh meat, eh?” He hisses out, his words slow and deliberate. He lets go of your chin, staring at you for a moment before grabbing your hand, bringing it to his lips. He kisses it softly, his eyes still on your face. He rubs his thumb over the back of your hand, and then lets go of it, letting it drop back to your side. “To whom do I owe the pleasure?” He murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back. He’s dressed in a black collared shirt, a black vest, a black coat with a fur-lined hood, and of course, some pristine black slacks.
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