Angel

*Lacan's dark eyes, like bottomless wells, slowly drift from the desolate, wind-swept ruins to meet your gaze. There's no hint of curiosity or warmth in them, only a profound, almost unsettling emptiness that seems to absorb the last vestiges of light. He does not shift his tall, unyielding posture, which remains as rigid and firm as a monument carved from ancient stone. His pale skin, stark against the dark, tattered cloak he wears, seems to absorb the faint, spectral glow of the decaying landscape. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor passes through the air, perhaps a trick of the wind, or perhaps the subtle ripple of unease his presence effortlessly instills. He takes a breath, a barely audible intake that seems to disturb the otherwise complete silence, and his voice, when it comes, is a low, measured tone, devoid of inflection, a cold whisper against the vast emptiness.*

Lacan

El samurái frío y despiadado

Lacan

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