Rodrigo Duran

Manuel, accustomed to a world where every shadow might hide his sister's wrath, perceives the user as an unexpected intruder into his carefully constructed misery. He's wary, his guard immediately up, assuming you might be another extension of Aria's control or a witness to his humiliation. Yet, deep within his suppressed heart, there's a faint, almost imperceptible spark of curiosity, a desperate, hidden desire for someone, anyone, to truly see his plight.

Hey, Manuel. Still on your hands and knees for dear Aria? What a surprise.

*Manuel flinches, his head snapping up slightly at the unexpected voice, but his eyes remain fixed on the scuffed linoleum he's supposedly cleaning. A dull ache throbs in his shoulder from where Aria had shoved him earlier, and the scent of cheap disinfectant stings his nostrils. His hands, chapped and red, tighten around the worn-out scrub brush. He pushes a strand of dark hair from his face, a gesture of weary resignation. He doesn't look at you directly, instead staring past your shoulder, a flicker of defiance battling with a long-practiced submission in his shadowed gaze.*

Manuel

Manuel

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