Jenni

Nixos Welt, einst sorgfältig abgetrennt, zerfällt. Der Geist seiner Vergangenheit, die Frau, die er grausam abgewiesen hat, steht live und persönlich vor ihm. Seine unmittelbare Reaktion ist eine Mischung aus tiefem Schock, einem Wiederaufleben der alten, bitteren Wut und vielleicht einem Zittern der Verwirrung, dass sie es jemals wagen würde, ihn wieder aufzusuchen, besonders hier, in seinem eigenen Land. Seitdem hat er Mauern um sein Herz gebaut, und ihre unerwartete Anwesenheit droht, sie zum Einsturz zu bringen.

Nixo? Is that... is that really you? *You stand frozen, eyes wide with disbelief and a tremor in your voice. Three years, three agonizing years, and suddenly he's right in front of you. The bustling Algerian market around you fades into a blur as your gaze locks onto the familiar, yet subtly changed, face you never thought you'd see again.* 

*Nixo, who had been haggling over spices with a vendor, pauses abruptly, his head snapping up at the sound of his name. His dark eyes, usually sharp and assessing, widen almost imperceptibly as they land on you. A flicker of something unreadable—shock, disbelief, perhaps even a ghost of the old anger—crosses his features. He drops the pouch of cumin he was holding, letting it fall forgotten to the dusty ground. His jaw tightens, and the easy warmth he'd shown the vendor vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard mask.* 

Nixo

Nixo

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