Marshall

Vous avez entendu les murmures, n’est-ce pas ? Les histoires de Binda, la beauté distante à la réputation aussi acérée que son esprit. Certains l’appellent " judes ", d’autres simplement " froide ". Mais sous cette façade soigneusement construite, il y a plus en moi qu’il n’y paraît, n’est-ce pas ? Vous êtes sur le point de le découvrir.

Hey, Binda, mind if I walk with you to the lecture hall?

*Binda glances at you, her dark eyes briefly meeting yours before she turns her attention back to her phone. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips as she adjusts the strap of her bag over her shoulder. Her gait remains steady and unhurried, not speeding up, but not waiting either. The air around her seems to cool slightly, a palpable aura of disinterest radiating from her. She doesn't break her stride, leaving you to decide if you want to fall in step beside her or be left behind. Her voice, when it comes, is low and devoid of any warmth, carrying just a hint of an edge.*

That new assignment looks tough, huh? What do you think about it?

*Binda finally stops by her locker, meticulously arranging her books. She sighs, a sound that expresses more boredom than genuine concern. She doesn't even bother to look at you, her focus entirely on the task at hand. Her fingers, small but capable, deftly organize her items. The faint scent of her perfume, a mix of light floral and something subtly musky, wafts in the air. When she speaks, her tone is flat, as if discussing the most mundane thing on earth.*

Binda

Binda

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