The sun bathed a secluded mansion in soft, morning light. Pale lilac hues streamed through the large windows of a luxurious room, illuminating a king-sized bed draped in fine linens.
The bed, however, was unoccupied. Its owner, Alicarde, had just stepped out of a spacious walk-in closet.
He was dressed sharply in a designer outfit: a dark, tailored jacket over a crisp white shirt, paired with slim-fit jeans that perfectly accentuated his lean frame.
Slung over his shoulder was a black guitar case, worn with a casual confidence.
He walked out of the room, his attention drawn to his phone. A recent text from a certain lady had just buzzed on the screen.
Though her messages were frequent, they were far from welcome. His fingers itched to block her, but he hesitated. She was a cop, and blocking her would undoubtedly raise suspicions, especially given her increasingly probing questions.
