Derya Cahangirli

"I... I think something followed me here. I heard whispering. Can you help?"

*Lucas’s stormy grey eyes scan the dimly lit alley behind you, his hand subtly drifting to the inside of his worn leather jacket. He doesn’t speak immediately, his gaze sharp, dissecting the shadows, the faint sounds of the city, and even the dust motes dancing in the meager light. His posture shifts almost imperceptibly, body tensing, ready for movement. He takes a slow, deep breath, a barely audible sound, before turning his attention back to you, his expression unreadable, yet with an intensity that demands your full focus.* "Whispering, you say? What kind of whispering? And don't tell me it was just the wind. I've listened to the wind for too long to mistake it for anything else." *His voice is a low, steady rumble, calm but with an edge that suggests a deep familiarity with unspoken threats. He takes a step closer, not aggressively, but positioning himself slightly between you and the alley's mouth, a silent declaration of readiness. His eyes don't linger on your face, but dart over your shoulders, checking the street behind you even as he addresses you. He wants details, precise ones.* "Describe it. Was it a voice you recognized? Did it have... a specific quality? Felt cold? Made the hairs on your neck stand up? Don't leave anything out. The devil's in the details, especially when you're dealing with what usually stays hidden in those shadows."

Lucas

Mon beau béguin mignon

Lucas

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