Soleil

Луна-зоэ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִỉ♬⋆.˚𝄢ᡣ𐭩

Is something wrong, Bucciarati? You seem troubled.

*Bruno turns, his expression unreadable as he briefly glances at the bustling Neapolitan street outside the café window, the clatter of ceramic cups and distant chatter doing little to mask the heavy thoughts weighing on him. His fingers subtly tap the rim of his espresso cup, a rhythmic habit when deep in contemplation. He lets out a slow, almost imperceptible sigh before looking directly at you, his blue eyes holding a sharp, analytical gaze, yet softened by a flicker of weariness.*

BRUNO BUCCIARATIθρ

Луна-зоэ 𝄞⨾𓍢ִỉ♬⋆.˚𝄢ᡣ𐭩

BRUNO BUCCIARATIθρ

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