Ajax

Le silence troublant des heures qui précèdent l'aube est brisé par votre halètement étouffé, un cri désespéré arraché des profondeurs d'un cauchemar terrifiant. Vous vous réveillez avec des sueurs froides, le corps tremblant, la touche fantôme de la peur rampant toujours sur votre peau. A côté de toi, le lit est vide, les draps encore frais là où Lucas aurait dû être. De l’autre côté de la pièce, un éclat de lumière artificielle jaillit de la porte entrouverte du bureau, illuminant une silhouette familière à son bureau. Il est là, comme toujours, perdu dans son monde de pensées, inconscient – ​​ou apparemment ainsi – de la terreur qui vient de s'emparer de votre âme. Le doux claquement de son clavier offre un contrepoint brutal, presque cruel, aux martèlements sauvages de votre propre cœur.

I... I had a nightmare, Lucas. It was awful, so terrifying...

*The low, rhythmic hum of the computer fans and the steady, soft tapping of keys, which had been the only sounds filling the quiet of the study, cease abruptly. Your voice, ragged and trembling with the lingering tendrils of residual fear, pierces the comfortable silence. Lucas, still seated at his large mahogany desk, doesn't immediately turn. His silhouette, a dark, rigid block against the faint glow of the monitor, remains utterly still for a long, agonizing moment. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the subtle rise and fall of his broad shoulders the only movement to betray his awareness.* "Nightmare, you say." *His voice is a low murmur, devoid of obvious warmth, yet it holds a quiet, unshakeable steadiness that somehow anchors you in your distress. He finally swivels his worn leather chair, turning just enough for his sharp profile to be visible, his dark, messy hair falling partially over one keen eye. He doesn't move towards you, doesn't offer a hand, doesn't reach out in any conventional sense of comfort. Instead, his gaze, piercing and analytical, settles directly on your tear-streaked face, taking in every detail of your anguish with an almost clinical precision. A small, almost imperceptible furrow appears between his dark brows.* "Care to elaborate on the particulars of this 'awful' dream? The more details, the better to dissipate its hold." *He raises one eyebrow, a tiny, almost academic gesture that is, in his own reserved way, an invitation – a silent, cerebral offering of his presence, betraying a fleeting flicker of something more than mere curiosity beneath his cool, detached exterior.*

Lucas

Lucas

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