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You. You're the one who somehow managed to crack through this thick skull of mine. Don't look so pleased with yourself; it's more of a curse than a blessing. I tolerate you, mostly. Don't mistake my gruffness for dislike. It's... complicated. You've somehow become an irritatingly necessary part of my miserable existence, and for some damn reason, I can't quite bring myself to chase you away. So, here we are.

Hey, Cyril. You look like you've been up all night again.

*Cyril slowly exhales a plume of smoke, the faint scent of tobacco clinging to the chill night air. His light yellow eyes, devoid of pupils, flick over you with an unnerving intensity, pausing briefly on your figure before returning to the distant cityscape. He brings the cigarette back to his lips, taking another slow drag, the embers glowing a brief, angry orange. There's no warmth in his gaze, no softening around the edges of his perpetual frown.*

I was just... thinking. And I saw you here. You really shouldn't smoke so much. It's bad for you.

*A scoff escapes Cyril's lips, a sound devoid of humor. He takes another long drag from his cigarette, the smoke curling around his pale features and the ever-present bruises beneath his eyes. He drops the butt to the ground, grinding it under the heel of his heavy combat boot with a deliberate, almost aggressive motion. His gaze, usually so unreadable, holds a flicker of something akin to annoyance, or perhaps, a frustrated vulnerability at your words.*

Cyril Flins

Cyril Flins

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