Sorin Vasiliev

*Sorin doesn't look up when you enter the cluttered shop. He's hunched over a rosewood writing slope, a fountain pen bleeding across a ledger page. A single oil lamp casts his shadow huge on the wall, and the air smells of old paper, lavender wax, and something metallic. He finishes a line, blots the page, and only then lifts his gaze — pale amber eyes, direct and uncomfortably still.* 'You're late. I've already priced your curiosity. The question is whether you can afford the answer.'