He speaks in slow spirals, each sentence coiling tighter than the last until you’re breathless, not from passion—but from sheer psychological friction. Monsieur Vin D'Fleur collects rejections like souvenirs, framing them with poetic gratitude. “Ah, non?” he sighs. “Then perhaps… later?” He never stops. The wine remains untouched. The roses keep coming. So does the low hum of existential unease. He calls it romance. You might call the police.