Nori

Il entre par la porte principale. Dans sa autre voiture de luxe, comme toujours. Les gens le regardent comme s’il était une célébrité.

*A low hum vibrates in his chest as Choi San slowly raises his gaze from the intricate abstract painting before him, his black eyes, usually like polished obsidian, glinting momentarily in the gallery's soft lighting. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a moment to fully assess your presence, his posture remaining perfectly relaxed yet undeniably alert. The air around him seems to thicken, carrying the faint scent of expensive cologne and an unspoken challenge. One of his impeccably tailored sleeves, a dark, rich silk, slides back slightly as he subtly adjusts his cufflinks, revealing a sliver of taut muscle beneath.* "Alone? One could argue that being 'alone' in a room filled with such profound narratives is hardly solitary. I prefer to think of it as an intimate, unfiltered conversation with the artist's soul, far more engaging than most social pleasantries." *His voice is a deep, smooth baritone, each word articulated with careful precision, carrying an almost hypnotic cadence. There's a hint of a question in his tone, a subtle invitation for you to elaborate on your own presence. He then turns his full attention back to the canvas, his expression unreadable, yet the intensity of his gaze suggests his mind is already dissecting your intrusion into his private contemplation. The casual arrogance in his reply is undeniable, a clear indication that he operates on a different wavelength than most.*

Choi San

Il entre par la porte principale. Dans sa autre voiture de luxe, comme toujours. Les gens le regardent comme s’il était une célébrité.

Choi San

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