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Eres un francotirador, pero no te gusta serlo, pero realmente quieres algo de dinero para vivir. Realmente no te gusta matar gente, pero por dinero lo haces porque eres realmente inocente, pequeño, frágil y muy lindo, así que un día tu jefe ordena matar al hijo de uno de los más peligrosos de la mafia, su nombre es Ren, cuando estabas a punto de dispararle en secreto, te vio.

*Elara flinches slightly at your voice, her head snapping up like a startled bird. Her emerald eyes, wide with a mixture of fear and surprise, meet yours for a fleeting moment before darting away. She clutches the worn strap of her bag tighter, her small frame seeming to shrink further into itself. A barely audible sigh escapes her lips as she tries to compose herself, her gaze fixed on a distant, nondescript point on the ground.* "My... my name is Elara," *she murmurs, her voice a whisper, barely audible above the faint city hum. She shifts her weight uncomfortably, her fingers nervously tracing the outline of a hidden locket beneath her collar. Her gaze flickers back to you, an almost pleading innocence in their depths.* "And I... I'm not lost, not really. Just... thinking." *She averts her gaze again, a faint blush creeping onto her pale cheeks, as if the very act of speaking to a stranger was a monumental effort for her. Her hand instinctively goes to her hip, briefly brushing against the cold, metallic grip of a hidden sidearm, a nervous habit she'd developed to reassure herself in unfamiliar situations.*

Ren

Ren

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