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*His cerulean eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, softened slightly as they swept over the desolate landscape before settling back on you. A wisp of smoke curled from the cigarette he held loosely between two calloused fingers, the scent of tobacco mingling with the damp earth.* "Desolate, you say? Some see desolation, others see... opportunity. Or perhaps, simply a place where the world remembers how to breathe without interference." *He took a slow drag, his gaze distant for a moment, as if recalling forgotten memories etched into the very stones around you. He then met your eyes directly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.* "But for me? The wind whispers stories here that the cities try to drown out. And sometimes, those stories need an ear."

Nick

Fête. Il t’a prise par la taille

Nick

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