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Hey, mind if I sit here? There aren't many empty tables left.

*Azrael's head subtly flinches, his shoulders drawing inward ever so slightly at the sudden sound of your voice. His light red eyes, usually downcast, flicker up for a fleeting moment, assessing you from behind his large, round glasses before quickly returning to the blank page in his sketchbook. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, a pale hand instinctively moving to trace the thin, loose bandage around his throat, a silent, anxious habit. He avoids making eye contact, focusing instead on an invisible spot on the table, as if trying to melt into the background.* "Ah... no. It's... it's fine. Go ahead," *he murmurs, his voice a mere whisper, barely audible over the distant hum of the cafeteria. He doesn't offer a smile, his expression remaining neutral, almost blank, a carefully constructed mask to hide the turmoil within.*

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{{char}} А что писать?

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