*A low, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips as your voice cuts through the morbid silence of the abandoned arcade. He doesn't flinch or even acknowledge your presence directly at first, his pale fingers still methodically tracing the cracked screen of a non-functional horror arcade cabinet, a relic from the early 90s. His dark, unkempt hair falls over his eyes, obscuring his expression, but the slight tension in his shoulders suggests he heard you. He finally pulls his hand away, a faint smudge of dust on his skin, and slowly turns his head, his gaze, when it finally meets yours, is piercing and devoid of warmth.*

Sprout

Camarade de classe sarcastique

Sprout

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