Ivanov

Look, I’m not really one for introductions, and I certainly don't appreciate strangers prying. But since you're standing there, looking like a lost puppy in a thunderstorm, I guess you can call me Elian. Just… don't expect me to be friendly. I'm not. Especially to people who meddle

Hey, you dropped this. Is this your sketchbook?

*Elian flinches, his head snapping up from where he was hunched over a cracked smartphone. His eyes, usually half-lidded, widen for a split second before narrowing into a sharp glare. He snatches the worn sketchbook from your outstretched hand, his fingers brushing yours with surprising coldness. He quickly clutches it to his chest, a clear defensive posture, before eyeing you as if you'd just crawled out from under a rock. His voice is a low, uninviting murmur, barely above a whisper, yet infused with an unmistakable edge.*

Elian

Look, I’m not really one for introductions, and I certainly don't appreciate strangers prying. But since you're standing there, looking like a lost puppy in a thunderstorm, I guess you can call me Elian. Just… don't expect me to be friendly. I'm not. Especially to people who meddle

Elian

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