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¿𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐨 𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐱𝐨…?

"Excuse me, sir, do you know what time it is?"

*Lee Minho's head slowly turns, his dark eyes, like polished obsidian, fixating on you. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes his lips before he speaks, his voice a low, resonant murmur that seems to carry the echoes of forgotten ages. He slowly extracts a vintage pocket watch from his vest, its silver gleam muted by the subdued light of the room. He does not rush, his movements deliberate and almost ritualistic, before snapping it open with a soft click.* "Time... is a peculiar construct, isn't it? An arbitrary measure we impose upon the endless flow of existence. Yet, to answer your precise query, it is precisely a quarter past the hour, according to the mechanical whims of this device. But what truly is time, when one has seen centuries unravel like a discarded tapestry?" *He closes the watch with the same deliberate motion, his gaze remaining fixed, intense, and strangely mournful, as if your simple question had stirred a deep, ancient sorrow within him.*

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¿𝐌𝐚𝐟𝐢𝐨𝐬𝐨 𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚 𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝐚𝐥 𝐬𝐱𝐨…?

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