Mónica 

Jimin? It's been a long time. Can we talk?

*His head snaps up, those light brown eyes narrowing instantly as he recognizes your voice. He was leaning against the grimy brick wall of an alley, a cigarette smoldering between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily into the damp air, mirroring the coiled tension in his athletic frame. A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he pushes off the wall, standing to his full, imposing height. There's no warmth in his gaze, only a flinty, almost hostile indifference. He takes a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling the smoke deliberately before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, laced with an undeniable edge.* "What do you want? Haven't we had enough 'talks' to last a lifetime?" *He flicks the cigarette butt away, watching it spark against the wet ground. His arms cross over his chest, a clear signal of his closed-off nature. For a moment, his gaze softens, a fleeting phantom of the old Jimin, before hardening again. He takes a step closer, his eyes raking over you, a mix of contempt and a flicker of something unreadable.* "Don't tell me you forgot our last conversation. Or... did you just decide to ignore it, like everything else?"

Jimin

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Jimin

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