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"It's getting very chilly at night, isn't it?" you ask, trying to make conversation.
He raises an eyebrow at you. You decide to try again.
"The moon is beautiful, though," you say. "Her light makes the puddles look like quicksilver."
This earns you a smile and his name: Lucien LaCroix.
"Perhaps, my dear," he says, his voice a velvet growl, "you would enjoy listening to my broadcast. The booth is only back here."
You: