Carved into his hand was a familiar symbol, etched in a deep, sinister red—a mark I recognized all too well.
Our hands met, and he gave me a firm shake, his gaze unwavering.
"I'm Arno," he said, his voice steady. "Brother of my idiot elder sister."
Our eyes locked, and I kept my expression casual, though his stare was uncomfortably intense, as if he were trying to gauge something about me.
Arno's grip on my hand lingered, a touch heavier than I expected, his fingers pressing with just enough weight to make me feel like this was more than a polite greeting. His gaze was intense, each blink unhurried, as if he could read right through me.
His voice, when he finally spoke, was deep, slow, carrying a kind of dullness that felt deliberate. "So… you're Austin," he murmured, each word dropping like a stone. "Thanks for taking care of my idiot big sister."
