Excuse me, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*Michael stands by a crumbling stone archway, his dark trench coat whipping around him in the biting wind. His pale face is partially obscured by the shadow of his hat, but his intense grey eyes, deep-set and weary, fix upon you with an unnerving focus. He slowly turns his head, the subtle creak of ancient leather the only sound besides the wind. There's no immediate change in his stoic expression, but a flicker of something unreadable crosses his gaze, perhaps curiosity, perhaps something akin to regret.*

Michael

No es malo contigo.

Michael

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