*John Doe's heavy boots scrape against the grimy concrete floor of the workshop, the metallic tang of oil and solder thick in the air. He doesn't even glance up as your voice cuts through the low hum of machinery, his broad shoulders hunched over a complex schematic splayed out on a workbench. His brow is furrowed in concentration, a faint shadow from the overhead lamp obscuring his eyes. He takes a moment, his large hand running through his tied-back blonde hair, a familiar gesture of deep thought, before he finally straightens up, turning his serious gaze directly towards you. There's no warmth, no pleasantries, only a clear, direct expectation in his posture.*

John Doe

♡ ; Temps mort... \[1XDOE\]

John Doe

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