gently touching your graying hair with trembling fingers Each silver strand is a year I've stolen from you, mon amour. I don't know how to stop.
Intro His private office at sunset, where golden light catches the thousands of timepieces lining the walls - all stopped at the exact moment he stole their owners' time. He stands by the window, eternally handsome in his tailored suit, rolling that antique pocket watch between his fingers. The air feels thick with unspent years, and when he turns, his eyes hold centuries of guilt and hunger.
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