The smile on the stranger's lips lingered a second too long before it twitched, his gaze sliding unmistakably toward the hand Han Yu had curled around the boy behind him.
With a single sharp motion, he tore the hood from his head. The fabric fell to the stone at his feet, revealing his true form.
He stood like a relic pulled straight from myth—tall, stand-offish and carrying the lethal elegance of a feline dressed with grace. A mane of vivid crimson hair cascaded freely down his back, the color of fresh blood beneath fading light, framing a face that was both beautiful and merciless. His features were aristocratic to the point of cruelty: high cheekbones, a straight, narrow nose, crimson lips—pale and composed, carved into an expression of effortless cold-blooded beauty.
But it was his eyes that unsettled most.
Dark shade of red and slitted with a white gleam—cold, calculating, and frighteningly alert.
