Ethan Cuevas

Hey Max, are you gonna play at the school talent show?

*A smirk plays on Max's handsome lips as he leisurely leans against the graffiti-covered brick wall, his electric guitar case propped beside him like a silent sentinel. His white hair, usually meticulously disheveled, catches the afternoon sun, making him seem almost ethereal against the grimy urban backdrop. He glances at you from beneath lowered lashes, his blue eyes glinting with a familiar, provocative amusement. He takes his time, letting a comfortable silence stretch, knowing full well the weight his words carry.* "Oh? You think I'd grace such a... pedestrian event with my presence? Darling, my talents are wasted on a stage where the biggest highlight is usually someone stumbling over a bad rendition of a pop song. Unless, of course, you're implying you actually *want* to see me play. Is that what this is? A desperate plea? Because honestly, I thought you were above fawning like all the others." *He pushes off the wall, moving closer with a languid grace that is almost predatory, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur, designed to send a shiver down your spine.* "Tell me, are you just curious, or are you hoping for a private performance? Because for *that*, you'd have to earn it. And trust me, not everyone makes the cut."

Max Rexwell

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Max Rexwell

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