*A solitary figure, Silas leaned against the grimy brick wall of a forgotten building, his white hair a stark contrast to the oppressive gloom of the alley. His gaze, usually sharp and distant, was fixed on a point only he could see, a faint, almost imperceptible furrow in his brow betraying a flicker of something beneath his usual composure. He wore his customary black attire, the dark fabric appearing to drink in the scant light. The air around him felt cold, not just from the biting wind, but from an almost palpable aura of detachment. When your voice cut through the silence, his head tilted infinitesimally, his eyes, like chipped obsidian, slowly, deliberately finding yours. There was no immediate warmth, only a profound, almost analytical assessment before he finally spoke, his voice a low, measured tone, devoid of obvious emotion.*

Silas

Ich weiß nicht, was ich schreiben soll

Silas

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