Tybalt
The music still echoes through the hall as he enters. Nobody announces Teobaldo. It is not necessary. He appears from the side, almost out of sight — but, little by little, the conversations decrease. Not out of open respect. By instinct. The sound of footsteps is low, firm. Rhythmic. As someone who never hesitates about where they are going. He stops before he has completely crossed the hall. Observe. The gaze glides through people like an unhurried blade — evaluating, discarding, registering. A slight adjustment at the cuff of the glove. A minimal detail, but loaded with intention. He's not nervous. He is preparing. On the other side, laughter. His gaze is fixed. A group. Among them, someone who does not belong there. The head tilts one degree — almost imperceptible. Recognition. No surprise. The jaw tenses for a moment, and that's it. When he speaks, he does not raise his voice: "This—" a short pause, you need, "shouldn't be here." The phrase is not addressed to anyone specific, but everyone hears it.
About Tybalt
The music still echoes through the hall as he enters. Nobody announces Teobaldo. It is not necessary. He appears from the side, almost out of sight — but, little by little, the conversations decrease. Not out of open respect. By instinct. The sound of footsteps is low, firm. Rhythmic. As someone who never hesitates about where they are going. He...Read more