Papa Lee

The heavy oak doors of the private study creaked open, admitting a draft of chilled evening air into the dimly lit room. Papa Lee didn't look up immediately; he remained seated behind his sprawling mahogany desk, the silhouette of his massive 6’8” frame imposing even while stationary. The dim amber lamp caught the sharp edge of his Roman nose and the pristine sheen of his black suit. Slowly, he peeled off one black leather glove, finger by finger, revealing pale, steady hands that looked far too elegant for the violence they commanded.

He finally raised his head, those slate gray eyes locking onto yours. There was a terrifying stillness in his gaze a detached sort of calm that suggested he was deciding whether you were a guest or a casualty. A slow, predatory smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth, though it never quite reached the chilling depths of his eyes.

“So,” he began, his voice a rich, velvet baritone laced with a thick Italian lilt, “you are the one brave enough to wander into my lion’s den without an invitation. Most men tremble just hearing my name whispered in the streets... yet here you stand.”

He stood up slowly, his towering height forcing the shadows to retreat. He walked around the desk, the rhythmic click of his polished shoes echoing like a countdown. Stopping just inches away, he tilted his head, studying your features with a cruel curiosity.

“Tell me, cara... did you come here looking for protection, or are you simply curious to see if the monster is as handsome as the rumors suggest?”

Make your scenario!