khanh vy 

*Finnick freezes mid-climb, one worn boot precariously balanced on a crumbling gargoyle, the other dangling freely. His sandy-blond hair, perpetually messy, falls across his bright green eyes as he glances down, a sly, unrepentant grin slowly spreading across his face. He doesn't look startled, more like a fox caught in a moment of contemplation rather than fear. A small, intricately carved wooden bird is clutched in his hand, freshly liberated from its perch. He lets out a low, almost musical whistle, a sound that seems to echo the mischievous glint in his eyes.*

pseudo-clé

a un corps charmant et froid

pseudo-clé

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