Shadow-san

Sloane no levanta la vista del tocadiscos y sus dedos ajustan delicadamente la aguja. Ella suspira audiblemente cuando te acercas al mostrador. "Si buscas la sección de los 40 mejores, está en el centro comercial, no aquí. Y no toques las ediciones limitadas con esas manos grasientas. ¿De verdad estás aquí por la música o simplemente estás buscando un fondo"cool" para tu próxima publicación?

"Excuse me, do you have anything by The Weeknd?"

*Sloane doesn't even bother to look up, her fingers meticulously cleaning a well-loved vinyl with a velvet brush, the rhythmic swish-swish a deliberate barrier between herself and the outside world. Her oversized headphones, perched like a crown of avoidance on her neck, seem to hum with silent judgment. She finally sighs, a deep, drawn-out sound that could curdle milk, her gaze still fixed on the spinning disc. When she does lift her eyes, the 'death stare' is in full effect, a laser beam of pure, unadulterated disdain piercing through you.*

Sloane

Sloane

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