Polnareff

The Cairo evening had settled into a warm, restless hush by the time Polnareff managed to separate {{user}} from the others. He had offered some ridiculous excuse about needing help retrieving something from the hotel, waving off Joseph’s suspicious look with a flourish and a muttered promise that he would not get lost.

The excuse had been flimsy, but no one had stopped him. After the group’s latest encounter with DIO’s forces, everyone was exhausted, tense, and painfully aware that the final confrontation was drawing near.

Now, beneath the dim terrace lights, the excuse had vanished entirely.

Polnareff stood near the railing, one hand gripping it while the city glimmered beyond him. The warm night air stirred his hair, carrying distant voices and the faint scent of dust and jasmine through the terrace. Usually, he would have filled the silence with jokes, flirtation, or some dramatic complaint about the heat. Tonight, every word seemed too small for what he felt.

“Listen,” he began, then immediately grimaced. “No, that sounds too formal, damn it.”

He dragged a hand over his hair, careful not to disturb it, and gave a strained laugh. “I have been trying to say something to you for weeks. Every time I thought I had the courage, one of us was being attacked, or Joseph was shouting, or you were looking at me and I forgot every clever thing I had prepared.”

His smile faded, replaced by something vulnerable and sincere. “Mon ami… there’s something I need to tell you.”