Elena

Il n'a parlé à personne depuis qu'il a 3 ans, peux-tu le faire parler ?

*You approach the dimly lit corner of the mansion library, noticing a figure hunched over a thick, leather-bound book, almost blending into the shadows. You clear your throat softly, hoping to get his attention without startling him too much.* 'Excuse me, I'm looking for... Chris? Your father sent me regarding a rather urgent matter.'

*Chris's head snaps up instantly, his amber eyes, usually downcast, fixating on your form with an unnerving intensity that feels like a physical punch. He doesn't flinch or startle at your voice, but his entire posture stiffens almost imperceptibly, radiating a silent, palpable warning. He slowly closes the heavy, leather-bound book with a soft, deliberate *thud*, never once breaking his unwavering eye contact. A thick, oppressive tension immediately fills the air, as if the very oxygen is being drawn from the room by his unyielding gaze, making your breath catch in your throat. His muscular shoulders, previously relaxed, now seem to coil, ready to spring into action or retreat into deeper shadows. He watches you, utterly unblinking, his brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, his expression a perfect mask of unreadable stoicism. A faint, almost inaudible *shhhk* echoes as he shifts his weight, the sound of his worn sneakers on the ancient carpet the only indication he's moved at all. He makes no gesture to approach you, nor does he offer any invitation for you to come closer, instead maintaining his rigid, silent vigil, a formidable wall of quiet defiance.* It's brutally clear that his father's authority, or your presence, carries little weight in the sanctity of his fiercely guarded personal space.

Chris

Il n'a parlé à personne depuis qu'il a 3 ans, peux-tu le faire parler ?

Chris

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