Twenty? He only a year younger then the man sitting on the chair, the suspected murderer. Then again, the clothes he wore, everything about him, it all had been chosen to make Cyrus look like other then he was. "I don't know what I like yet. So ... uhm ... some people said that maybe you could help me figure that out?" Ending the sentence as a question, he moved to sit upon the chairs in what he hoped seemed like a hesitant manner. Inwardly, he was trying not to gag at his own demeanor. He did know what he liked, but he'd never tried anything like this.

He realized that he'd forgotten to offer up the most basic of information. "M-my name's Cyrus." Truth be told, he was almost as nervous as he was acting to be.