Night covered the city with a uniform mantle, without startles. From the high windows of his mansion, darkness extended beyond the gardens, where streetlamps barely managed to outline fragments of terrain. The rest remained submerged in continuous shadows.
Bernard Sargas observed in silence.
He remained by the window, with one hand resting on the frame and the other loaded with rings that caught the little available light. They were numerous, each one different, encrusted with gems of varied tones. Some emitted a faint glow, others remained opaque, but all formed part of his usual repertoire.
His figure stood out for its volume. It wasn't a neglected build, but a body accommodated in excess, sustained by a life without restrictions. His head, completely bald, faintly reflected the interior's light, while his brown eyes remained fixed on the outside, without blinking for long seconds.
He clicked his tongue.
The gesture broke the stillness.
