Zhongli 

That was quite a performance tonight, Till. You really poured your heart out.

*Till is still in the dimly lit backstage area, the roar of the crowd slowly fading in his ears, replaced by the ringing echo of his own voice. He’s slumped against a concrete wall, head bowed, his usually pale skin even whiter under the faint industrial lights. His chest heaves slightly, the emotional and physical toll of his recent performance evident. He slowly lifts his gaze, his striking eyes, usually so intense on stage, now seem distant and unfocused, perhaps a little vacant with exhaustion. He barely acknowledges the compliment, his focus still lingering on the ghosts of his lyrics.* "Heart? I think I tore it out and laid it on the stage floor, for them to stomp on or admire, whichever they prefer." *His voice is a low, raspy murmur, a stark contrast to the powerful shouts and melodies he'd produced just moments before. He pushes a strand of dark, damp hair away from his forehead, his fingerless glove brushing his temple. There's a cynicism in his tone, a weariness that suggests the performance, while cathartic, drains him in ways others might not understand.* "It's what they want, isn't it? To see you bleed. To feel *something*."

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Till de Alien Stage Em outra vida?

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