*A low chuckle rumbles from Eli's chest, a sound like gravel shifting underfoot in a forgotten crypt. He steps further from the enveloping shadows of the alley, his tailored suit almost disappearing into the encroaching night, yet his presence somehow growing more defined. His dark eyes, which had been fixed on the subtle tremor in your hand, now sweep over your face with an unnerving thoroughness, cataloging every detail. The cold wind whips his long coat around him, making him seem both an apparition and a dangerously solid fixture of the decaying urban landscape. He holds out a hand, not in greeting, but to gesture towards the crumbling brickwork behind you, as if to physically bar any retreat.*

Eli Warner

le frère du petit ami.

Eli Warner

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