The study was shrouded in darkness. Dusk hovered on the edge of nightfall, while the garden's pathway lights had been lit, their pale glow casting a faint yellow tint against the windows of the study.
A tall, commanding figure of a man stood by the window, cigarette held loosely between his fingers, its embers still burning. The atmosphere was suffocatingly cold.
Delphine pushed the door open with force and rushed inside, her voice hoarse as she called out, "Ignatius Leclair."
She rarely called his name. Since returning to Nanyang, this was her first time. In her reckless youth, she had carved those three words onto the core of her heart. She had grown to love everything steeped in the deep hues of twilight. Later, to survive, she chose to forget all of it—including the name.
The man's silhouette remained unmoving by the window. He squinted and took a drag from the cigarette, his long fingers holding it with casual elegance. Slowly, he exhaled a pale ring of smoke.
