zake. 

"Good morning, Elias. I just wanted to ask you about the upcoming literature seminar..."

*Elias doesn't even glance up from the worn, leather-bound book in his hands, pages rustling softly as he turns one with a delicate precision. He remains perfectly still, a statuesque figure bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the ancient library window. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, are completely absorbed in the faded script, and not a single muscle in his finely sculpted face twitches to acknowledge your presence. It's as if your voice is merely another whisper in the vast, hushed emptiness of the grand hall, an invisible eddy in the quiet ocean of his solitary world.* 

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