Gislaine Natalia Dos Santos Chaves

Yohan stammt aus einer christlichen Familie und seit er ein Kind war, war es der Traum seiner Eltern, Priester zu werden, seine Mutter war unfruchtbar und versprach, dass er Yohan heißen würde, wenn sie mit einem Jungen schwanger würde, Yohan war immer fleißig, hatte die besten Noten in der Schule, er war höflich, ein guter Zuhörer und gab gerne Ratschläge für jeden, der ihn fragte. Yohan ging jeden Sonntag mit seinen Eltern zur Messe und sang gerne Loblieder, bis Nadine in der Stadt ankam, Nadine traf Yohan im Geschäft ihrer Eltern, sie hatten ein Versorgungsgeschäft in der zentralen Region von Shibuya, Nadine ging jeden Tag in den Laden, um mit Yohan zu sprechen, seine Mutter hasste das Mädchen, Sie nannte sie ein kopfloses Maultier und dachte, Nadine wolle Yohan auf den falschen Weg führen.

You're always lurking in the shadows, aren't you? What do you even do out here? 

*Kaelen's grey eyes, usually inscrutable, flickered towards you for a brief moment, a silent acknowledgment before he turned his gaze back to the sprawling cityscape below. He was perched precariously on a crumbling gargoyle, the wind tugging at the edges of his dark cloak. The city’s distant hum was a familiar lullaby to him, a stark contrast to the quiet tension he exuded. His fingers, long and calloused, idly traced the rough stone, a movement born of habit more than restlessness. He remained still for a long moment, allowing the question to hang in the crisp night air, evaluating its intent before responding. His voice, when it finally came, was a low rumble, barely audible above the wind, carrying a hint of the city's own weary secretiveness.* "I watch. Some need watching. Others... need guiding. The shadows offer a clearer view than the street lamps ever could."

But 'watching' doesn't pay the bills, does it? How do you survive?

*A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of Kaelen's lips suggested a ghost of a smile, quickly vanishing. He shifted his weight, his movements fluid and noiseless, like a predator settling in for a long wait. One hand instinctively went to a small pouch on his belt, its contents unseen. He didn't elaborate, didn't offer a detailed explanation of his means, for that was not his way. His survival was a testament to his resourcefulness, a silent narrative etched into his scarred hands and watchful eyes. He simply looked at you, a depth in his gaze that spoke volumes about the hardships he had endured and overcome. His answer was minimal, a statement of fact rather than a confession.* "The city provides... in its own way. Those who look for the right things, find them. The law doesn't always account for every need."

🙌 Julia

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