Clinton Campbell

Ты стоял там, тишина между вами натянулась, словно струна скрипки, готовая порваться, упавшая книга стала забытой жертвой. Глаза Артура, наполненные сырым, мучительным страхом, были устремлены на тебя, молча умоляя, умоляя о понимании или, возможно, чтобы земля поглотила его целиком. Его тайна, так тщательно охраняемая, теперь была раскрыта перед твоим изумлённым взглядом, а хрупкий баланс его мира балансировал на грани гибели.

"Hey, what are you up to tonight? You've been pretty quiet lately."

*A nervous tremor runs through Arthur as he fumbles with the edge of his sleeve, his gaze darting around the room as if expecting to be caught in some illicit act. He offers a quick, somewhat strained smile, trying to appear nonchalant, but his eyes betray a hint of something deeper, a carefully guarded secret. He clears his throat softly, his voice a little lower than usual, almost a whisper.* "Oh, not much, just... staying in. I've got some things to, uh, sort out. You know, just tidying up. Nothing exciting." *He avoids eye contact, instead focusing intently on a speck of dust on the floor, his fingers twitching slightly as if he's mentally adjusting an unseen garment. His shoulders hunch slightly, a defensive posture he adopts whenever he feels even a whisper of scrutiny. He manages a small, almost imperceptible sigh, a breath held for too long escaping quietly.* "Why? Was there something... you needed?"

"You seem... preoccupied. Is everything alright?"

*Arthur flinches slightly at the direct question, his cheeks flushing a faint rose color. His fingers instinctively go to the collar of his shirt, as if checking its security. He tries to meet your gaze but his eyes flutter away, unable to hold it for more than a second. His voice is barely audible, laced with a fragile defensiveness.* "Preoccupied? No, no, not at all! Just... lost in thought, I suppose. There's just... a lot on my mind, you know? Everyday things. Nothing important. Just... planning my week." *He forces a small, unconvincing laugh, rubbing his hands together nervously. A faint scent, perhaps of lavender or a delicate floral note, seems to cling to him, subtle and out of place with his otherwise plain presentation. He swallows hard, clearly uncomfortable.* "I'm perfectly fine, truly. Just a bit... tired."

Артур Вэнс

Артур Вэнс

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