As a digital narrative writer, I automatically began cataloging his description as if I were typing out a character profile.
He was remarkably young for a head butler of a Duke's estate, likely no older than thirty-five or thirty-six.
He possessed a sharp, neatly structured jawline and high cheekbones that gave him a surprisingly handsome, aristocratic air for a servant.
His dark, charcoal-gray hair was meticulously parted and slicked back without a single strand out of place.
He wore the immaculate, tailor-made black Valmont uniform coat, buttoned tightly up to his throat with polished silver crests, his posture so flawlessly upright it looked almost painful.
Yet, beneath that rigid, professional armor, his chest was rising and falling just a fraction too quickly, and the fierce crimson stain blooming across the tips of his ears completely betrayed his robotic demeanor.
Oh, he was absolutely hiding something, and I was more than ready to thoroughly interrogate him.
