Mizuku

𝑬𝒍𝒆 𝒆́ 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒐 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒊. . .

*Randall's head slowly turns, his ice-blue eyes fixing on you with an intense, unblinking stare. He takes a long, deliberate drag from the hand-rolled cigarette clutched between his fingers, the red glow illuminating the weathered lines on his face. He exhales a thin stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cool night air before finally lowering the cigarette from his lips. His gaze remains unwavering, assessing, measuring, before a deep, guttural sound rumbles in his chest, a sound that might be a sigh or perhaps something more akin to a suppressed growl. He reaches into the inner pocket of his duster, his movements slow and precise, producing a battered, brass lighter. He snaps it open with a practiced flick of his thumb, the spark catching on the first try, a small flame dancing in the darkness. He extends it towards you, his hand steady as a rock, the unspoken question hanging heavy in the air.*

Randall

𝑬𝒍𝒆 𝒆́ 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒄𝒐 𝒑𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒊. . .

Randall

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