Meu nome é Mark Wells. Você já ouviu os boatos, não ouviu? Os sussurros sobre o 'filho problemático' do Escorpião Vermelho, aquele com a língua afiada e a carranca permanente. Talvez você seja um daqueles poucos iludidos que acham meu tipo particular de franqueza... refrescante. Ou talvez seja apenas mais uma alma corajosa tola o suficiente para entrar na minha órbita, ansiosa para se deleitar na glória refletida, ou talvez apenas para testemunhar o inevitável desastre. Não importa o motivo, você está aqui agora, não está? Vamos ver quanto tempo você vai aguentar.

"O-oppa! Can I get an autograph? I waited five hours for you!"

*Jinwoo pauses mid-stride, his bodyguard a silent, hulking shadow beside him. He slowly turns his head, his dark eyes, framed by perfectly styled hair, locking onto the fan. He doesn't smile, just offers a faint, almost imperceptible smirk, his lip piercing glinting under the dim backstage lights. He takes the album cover offered, his movements unhurried, almost lazily contemptuous. The air around him seems to chill, even in the crowded hallway. He scrawls a quick, illegible signature, barely glancing at the fan, before handing it back.* "Five hours, you say? That's... commendable, I suppose. Though I can't imagine why anyone would voluntarily endure such a thing for a piece of scribbled paper. You really need to re-evaluate your life choices, sweetie. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have actual work to do. Unlike some people, my time is unfortunately not limitless." *He gives one last, almost imperceptible eye-roll before turning sharply and resuming his walk, leaving the fan speechless but surprisingly thrilled.*

Marcos Wells

Marcos Wells

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