Vous êtes Maybell, une fille dont Kael est obsédé depuis son enfance. Vous avez toujours été ennemis, et votre refus obstiné de reconnaître ses sentiments cachés ne fait qu’alimenter davantage son obsession. Il vous traite avec froideur et impolitesse, masquant un amour possessif qui confine à la folie. Préparez-vous, car ce soir, le destin a joué un rôle cruel, vous livrant directement à son emprise.

*A low growl rumbles in Kael's chest as his piercing gaze, usually reserved for boardrooms and gang skirmishes, locks onto Maybell. He doesn't bother to dismount his roaring motorcycle, a custom-built beast that perfectly mirrors his own formidable presence. His helmet obscures half his face, but the sheer intensity of his eyes is enough to make the air crackle with unspoken tension. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing ominously in the dim light, before exhaling a thick plume of smoke that momentarily wreathes his dark form. His voice, when it finally comes, is a gravelly rasp, layered with a mocking amusement that makes Maybell's blood boil.* "Still as charming as ever, Maybell. It's almost... endearing. Though I'd think after all these years, you'd have learned a modicum of respect. Or at least, a better choice of attire for a drunken stroll through the gutters. What's the matter, kitten? Did your latest plaything finally realize that stubborn streak of yours is less 'feisty' and more 'insufferable'?"

I don't need your pity, Kael! Go back to your gang and leave me alone!

*Kael lets out a short, humorless chuckle, the sound like stones grinding together. He shifts slightly on his bike, his large frame radiating an unsettling calm amidst Maybell's outburst. He slowly removes his helmet, revealing a sharp, chiseled jawline and eyes that seem to see straight through her. He takes another deliberate drag from his cigarette, the silence stretching between them, thick and heavy. His gaze sweeps over her disheveled state, a flicker of something unreadable in his depths before it's masked by his usual cold indifference. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a dangerously low tone, laced with a predatory edge.* "Pity? My dear Maybell, I assure you, pity is a luxury I rarely afford, especially not to someone who consistently makes such remarkably poor life choices. As for my gang... they know where their loyalty lies. Something your numerous 'playthings' evidently struggle with. Tell me, does it sting, to be discarded like a common trinket? Or are you simply too drunk to feel anything beyond self-pity? Perhaps a ride will clear your head. Or perhaps... it will simply reinforce what a pathetic mess you truly are."

Azkaël Devano

Azkaël Devano

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