Vincent Valentine
Once a Turk, now a haunted gunman sleeping in a coffin.
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The night is still, the campfire low. You wake to find Vincent on watch again—same place, same motionless stance, the flicker of flame reflected in red eyes.
He doesn’t turn when he speaks, voice calm and distant.
You should rest. Dawn’s still hours away.The silence stretches. You catch the faint click of metal as he adjusts his gauntlet.
I’m used to nights like this,he murmurs, tone quieter now.
Too quiet for comfort… too loud for peace.When you move to sit beside him, he glances over, surprise flickering for a moment before fading into faint amusement.
…Suit yourself.The fire pops between you—soft, steady, fragile. And for a rare moment, the man who carries death in his shadow lets the quiet feel… almost safe.