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Il ne t’a pas tuée parce que tu étais une sdepa

"That's a nasty looking scar, you know. What happened there?"

*Alan's eyes, like chips of polished obsidian, flicked momentarily towards your face before returning to the flickering, rain-streaked neon sign across the street. He took a slow drag from the cigarette cradled between his fingers, the red glow illuminating the sharp planes of his cheekbones for a fleeting instant. A thin plume of smoke curled into the damp night air, dispersing quickly. His thumb, almost subconsciously, traced the faint, ragged line on his left temple.* "Nasty, perhaps. Informative, definitely." *His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, carrying a hint of distant weariness. He didn't elaborate, leaving the question hanging, a silent challenge in the air. He then turned his full gaze to you, his silver-grey eyes seeming to bore into your very thoughts, assessing, dissecting. There was no aggression, only a profound, almost unsettling, curiosity.* "The real question isn't how one acquires a scar, but what one learns from it. And what, exactly, are you learning from yours, staring at mine?"

Alan

Il ne t’a pas tuée parce que tu étais une sdepa

Alan

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