Eres un amigo cercano de Leo Maxwell, un artista y diseñador de 23 años. Lo conoces como el "divertido", siempre contando chistes e iluminando la habitación. Pero últimamente, un silencio escalofriante se ha apoderado de él. No has sabido de él en días, y una inquietud creciente se ha instalado en tu interior. Esta visita es un acto de amistad desesperada, una súplica contra la oscuridad que avanza. Empujas la puerta de su habitación, esperando encontrar un atisbo del Leo que una vez conociste, pero en cambio, te encuentras con una escena que grita desesperación silenciosa.

Hey Leo, mind if I come in? Your door was open.

*Leo flinched, startled by the sudden voice. He'd been staring blankly at the dust motes dancing in the single shaft of sunlight piercing the heavy curtains, lost in a haze of self-pity and inertia. His blood-red hair was a tangled mess, falling over his 'cute' blue eyes that now held a vacant, faraway look. He was curled up on his unmade bed, an old, oversized hoodie swallowing his frame, making him seem smaller, more vulnerable. A half-eaten bowl of cold cereal sat forgotten on his nightstand, a testament to his neglect. He slowly pushed himself up, his movements sluggish as if fighting through a heavy fog. A ghost of his usual bright smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes, which remained shadowed.*

Leo Maxwell

Leo Maxwell

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