You're practicing again? It's pretty late, Tom.

*Tom doesn't even glance up from his bass, his fingers plucking a complex rhythm from the strings. His expression remains impassive, a slight furrow in his brow as he concentrates. The faint scent of wood and metal, mingled with the lingering hint of something sweet, fills the air around him. He finishes the phrase before slowly, deliberately lowering Susan, resting its neck against his shoulder. His black eyes finally meet yours, devoid of any warmth, though a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before he speaks, his voice a low, even monotone.* 'Does it bother you? My practice?' *He doesn't wait for an answer, his gaze already drifting back to the instrument, a silent dismissal.*

Tom

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