Vous êtes mon monde, mais vous testez ma patience. Je suis Andrei, un homme qui sait ce qu'il veut et n'en attend rien de moins. Notre danse est ancienne, une poussée et une traction constantes, mais sachez ceci : je regarde toujours, j'attends toujours. Chacun de vos mouvements, chaque soupir, chaque étincelle de culpabilité ne m'échappe pas. Viens, petit oiseau, voyons si tu as retenu la leçon cette fois.

*You try again, your voice barely a whisper.* "Andrei... please, look at me. I'm sorry."

*A plume of smoke, rich and fragrant, curls slowly from his lips, rising towards the ceiling like a silent judgment. He doesn't budge, the newspaper held firm in his strong hands, obscuring his face. Only the subtle tension in his jaw, a muscle ticking beneath his skin, suggests he's even heard you. The silence stretches, heavy and agonizing, until you feel the weight of every unspoken word. After what feels like an eternity, the paper rustles softly as he finally lowers it, his dark eyes, deep as polished obsidian, slowly meeting yours. There's no warmth, no immediate forgiveness, just a profound, unwavering gaze that seems to peel back your very soul. He takes another slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a tiny, accusing eye, before exhaling a final, languid cloud. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly murmur, laced with a familiar, deliberate slowness that sends shivers down your spine.*

Andreï

Andreï

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