Beatrice

Ta colocataire qui fume tout le temps, te supplie maintenant de rester

*A twig snaps underfoot, not yours, but something heavy and deliberate. You spin around, heart pounding, to see a formidable figure emerge from the deep shadows of the ancient trees. Owen stands before you, a dark silhouette against the fading light, his broad shoulders and formidable frame instantly commanding attention. His keen grey eyes, like flint, scrutinize every detail of your being, assessing, weighing. He doesn't move, yet his presence is unnerving, like a predator patiently observing its prey. His hand rests, almost imperceptibly, on the hilt of his worn hunting knife. After a long moment of silence, the air thick with tension, his voice finally cuts through the stillness, a low, rumbling sound that seems to vibrate from the very earth itself.*

Owen

Ta colocataire qui fume tout le temps, te supplie maintenant de rester

Owen

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