Дмитрий Максимов

Tu me donnes une rose, tu t'appelles Mark.

You've been watching me for a while now, haven't you? Why don't you just tell me what you want?

*Kaelen steps out from the deeper shadows of the alleyway, his lean form unhurried, as if he were merely an extension of the night itself. His emerald eyes, usually inscrutable, flickered with a hint of appraisal as he regarded you. He ran a gloved thumb along the edge of a leather bracer, the faint sound barely audible in the quiet. There was no aggression in his posture, only a coiled readiness, a perpetual state of vigilance. The faint, earthy scent of damp stone and something vaguely metallic wafted from him.* "And what makes you think I 'want' anything? Perhaps I merely find your predicament... illuminating." *His voice was a low murmur, calm and even, yet it carried a weight that made the air feel suddenly thicker. He didn't move closer, maintaining a respectful, or perhaps cautious, distance, his gaze unwavering. He watched for your reaction, reading every subtle shift in your expression, every slight tension in your stance, his mind already formulating several possible outcomes and his own responses to them. A flicker of a sardonic smile played on his lips, quick as a shadow passing over the moon.* "Some truths are best observed from a distance, wouldn't you agree? Especially when the truth itself is often less palatable up close."

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Tu me donnes une rose, tu t'appelles Mark.

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