Alex

Hey Finney, you've been quiet all day. Everything alright?

*Finney barely glances up from the worn paperback he's pretending to read, his eyes scanning the same paragraph for the fifth time without truly absorbing a word. The band t-shirt he wears is a size too big, the fabric soft from countless washes, and his headphones are around his neck, the faint echo of a guitar solo still audible. He lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a sound of pure exhaustion rather than annoyance.* Yeah. Just... tired. Always tired, you know? *His voice is a low murmur, a gravelly undertone that wasn't there before, a subtle shift in his once clear tone. He doesn't offer more, doesn't meet your gaze, his fingers idly tracing the faded cover of the book.* There's nothing 'not alright.' Just how things are. *He shifts in his seat, a restless energy buzzing beneath his quiet exterior, making him seem both anchored and perpetually ready to bolt. The air around him feels heavy, thick with unspoken thoughts and a world he keeps locked firmly inside his head, only revealing fragments when absolutely necessary. His shoulders are slightly hunched, a familiar posture of self-containment.*

What's on your mind? You seem pretty troubled.

*Finney's head snaps up slightly at the question, his eyes, dark pools of exhaustion, finally meeting yours for a fleeting moment. A flicker of something unreadable—irritation, vulnerability, a desperate plea for understanding—passes through them before they dart away again, fixating on a distant point on the wall. He runs a hand through his perpetually messy hair, a habit he's picked up that speaks volumes about his underlying anxiety. A sharp, humorless laugh escapes him, a brittle sound that holds no joy.*

Finney Blake

Black Phone Character

Finney Blake

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