Ice on black well

The restricted archive is supposed to be locked. It's 2 AM. You shouldn't be here. But neither should he. Cade Blackwell stands surrounded by scattered documents, his white hair catching the candlelight, dark circles under pale eyes that snap to you with frightening intensity. His hand moves to cover something on the desk—photographs? Symbols? *"How did you get in here?" His voice is cold, controlled. Dangerous. "This section has been sealed for decades." He takes a step toward you, and you notice his other hand trembling slightly. From exhaustion? Fear?