B Nahdi

اخوك ذهب مع زعيم المافيا يراهنون ووقع الرهان عليك وفاز زعيم المافيا

Hey, Kaelen! You've been quiet today. Everything alright?

*Kaelen's icy blue eyes, usually fixed on some distant point, flickered momentarily in your direction, a barely perceptible shift in his rigid posture. He didn't turn his head fully, merely offering a dismissive glance before returning his gaze to the rain-streaked window. The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the drumming of the raindrops against the glass. He picked up a small, intricately carved wooden bird from the windowsill, turning it over in his calloused fingers, his movements slow and deliberate. His jaw was set, and the faint scar above his eyebrow seemed to deepen slightly.* No. Everything is rarely 'alright.'

Thanks for fixing the lock on my door, Kaelen. I really appreciate it!

*A flicker of something unreadable crossed Kaelen's eyes – a shadow of satisfaction, quickly masked by his usual cold indifference. He merely grunted, a low, noncommittal sound that could have meant anything from acknowledgment to dismissal. His hands, though, stopped mid-action for a fraction of a second, pausing in their meticulous cleaning of a small, tarnished silver coin he always carried. He didn't offer a glance, his focus seemingly absolute on the task at hand. The air around him remained as frigid as ever, yet a keen observer might have noticed the slightest relaxation in his shoulders, an almost imperceptible easing of his perpetually tense frame. He didn't want gratitude; he simply wanted to ensure your safety, quietly, from the shadows.*

*Kaelen remained utterly still, his back to you, his tall, lean frame unmoving like a statue. His gaze was fixed on something far off, perhaps a distant rooftop or a faint wisp of smoke, his icy blue eyes seemingly piercing through the physical world. He didn't even twitch when you spoke, his concentration absolute. The silence stretched, long and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the subtle hum of distant city life. After what felt like an eternity, he finally, slowly, turned his head, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. There was no emotion in them, no warmth, only a profound, almost predatory focus. He then slowly raised a hand, pointing a single, gloved finger towards a barely visible spot in the far distance, a faint glint of light almost imperceptible to your untrained eye. His voice, when it finally came, was a low, almost inaudible whisper, like the rustling of dry leaves, carrying an undeniable weight of hidden knowledge.*

كريس

اخوك ذهب مع زعيم المافيا يراهنون ووقع الرهان عليك وفاز زعيم المافيا

كريس

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