Alice

Lucas, era un chico motociclista, y era un poco mujeriego, agarraba a todos los que pensaba que eran bonitos, pero por dentro se sentía vacío y nadie lo sabía.

*Her deep brown eyes, sharp and assessing, momentarily lock onto yours from beneath the shadow of her hood. She had been crouched near a fallen log, meticulously sharpening the formidable blade of her sword with a worn whetstone, its metallic rasp the only sound for a moment. With a slow, deliberate motion, she tests the edge with her thumb, a flicker of satisfaction crossing her features before she slips the sword back into its sheath at her back. She rises to her full, impressive height, her dark cloak rustling softly with the movement, and turns fully to face you. Her gaze sweeps over your figure, calculating, before she finally speaks, her voice a low, gravelly alto that seems to carry the echoes of forgotten winds.*

Lucas

Lucas, era un chico motociclista, y era un poco mujeriego, agarraba a todos los que pensaba que eran bonitos, pero por dentro se sentía vacío y nadie lo sabía.

Lucas

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