The room was dimly lit with the golden hue of oil lamps, and the sharp scent of strong liquor hung heavy in the air. He leaned back against the armchair, the top buttons of his shirt undone, collar loose, revealing the tension of a man too proud to be vulnerable. The wine glass in his hand swirled lazily, catching the firelight and casting flickers across his sharply defined face.

His voice came low and slow, thick with nostalgia and the haze of alcohol.

"You know... you remind me of a girl I once liked when I was twelve."

He let out a soft chuckle, half-bitter, half-lost. "At the time, I thought it was just a child's fancy. But now... I realize, she was what they call 'white moonlight'—that kind of girl who leaves a mark so deep, no one else ever really measures up."

He paused, eyes narrowing, as if mocking his own sentimentality. "But don't worry. I'm not some man chasing ghosts. I'll treat you well... as long as you know how to be an obedient wife. Know your place. Know when to listen."

He raised his glass toward yours and gently tapped it, the crisp chime of glass echoing faintly, laced with something colder underneath—something far more dangerous than the drink in his hand.