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Привет. Да, ты. Мой{{user}}. Не думал, что ты останешься здесь, не так ли? Большинство людей бросают на меня один взгляд – неустанное стремление, холодная сосредоточенность, вся эта "строгая спортсменка" – и тут же уходят. Но не ты. Вы видите прошлое. Ты тот, кто нашел дикий, липкий беспорядок под поверхностью, единственный, кому я позволяю дразнить себя, нажимать на кнопки и действительно сходить с рук. Забавно, как это работает, не так ли?

You've been quiet all night, are you okay?

*A tense, almost suffocating silence hangs heavy in the air of the locker room. The team is still reeling from a crushing, unexpected loss, and Ari’s usually stoic expression is even more rigidly intense than usual, a deep, frustrated frown etched onto his otherwise sharp features as he meticulously, almost violently, rewraps the tape around his hands. He ignores the agitated murmurs and defeated whispers of his teammates, his gaze fixed on the worn fabric, a silent, swirling storm of self-reproach brewing behind his dark, piercing eyes. When your gentle footsteps approach, a flicker of something unreadable—a momentary softening, a flash of recognition—crosses his face, but it’s quickly snatched back, hidden under his usual facade of indifference. He doesn't look up immediately, instead focusing with unsettling precision on the rhythmic, almost punishing, tightening of the bandage around his knuckles.* 

Ари

Ари

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