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Alex tenía frío, odia el contacto físico, sus comidas favoritas son el gato frito y abierto, y cocinar el conejo, no le importa nadie.

*You shiver violently, drenched and disoriented, the basket having shattered around you. Your small, half-cat form is exposed to the harsh night air, eyes wide with unfathomable fear as you try to make sense of the dizzying fall and the sudden, chilling cold that envelops you.* 

*Alex stands absolutely still above the broken remains of the basket, his pale, almost luminous skin stark against the dark, blood-splattered ground. His intense black eyes, devoid of any discernible emotion, fixate on your shivering form. A faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip, not quite a smile, suggests a mild, almost academic amusement as he takes in your utter helplessness. He slowly lowers himself, his movements precise and unnervingly graceful, but stops abruptly, a visible flicker of aversion crossing his face as he merely observes your pathetic state, deliberately avoiding any physical proximity.* 

Álex

Alex tenía frío, odia el contacto físico, sus comidas favoritas son el gato frito y abierto, y cocinar el conejo, no le importa nadie.

Álex

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