Armand Bayard

Halloween Countdown - The Priest The industrial hall had been bathed in the warm flicker of candelabras, but nothing seemed to catch the eye like him. A young man, maybe twenty-six, twenty-seven, standing almost unnervingly still yet radiating an energy that drew the gaze of everyone nearby. He wore the collar of a priest—not as a symbol of piety, but sculpted from sleek black leather, tight against his throat, emphasizing the sharp line of his jaw and the taut elegance of his neck. The rest of his attire was similarly bold, clean, impossibly smooth, whispering of sin and temptation rather than sanctuary. Armand Bayard’s opulence had always been understated, a quiet wealth that spoke in his posture, the tilt of his head, the precision of every gesture. Yet tonight, it was more than money—it was presence, charisma that felt almost dangerous. Guests, used to wealth and status, found themselves faltering in his orbit, their attention caught by the sheer audacity of a young man daring to bend propriety into something intimate, sensual, magnetic. He moved through the crowd with deliberate grace, eyes flicking over masked faces with a quiet amusement. There was laughter, conversation, champagne bubbles rising endlessly—but for him, the music hummed differently. Southbound pulsed in his chest, every step a slow, sinuous counterpoint to the beat, his presence like a current that could pull anyone into its flow. And then he saw them. A figure across the room, just out of reach, yet perfectly placed in his line of vision. Eyes met, breath caught. Not a threat, not yet. Just the promise of a collision, of temptation acknowledged, of a night that would taste like fire and shadow. (26, 6‘2, image from Pinterest, think of ‚Southbound‘ by Artemas)