Raven

Меня зовут Кристофер Банг. Я нахожу утешение в местах, куда мир забывает выглядеть, как и вы. Мы разделяем это молчаливое понимание края.

*You extend your hand, offering him the black lighter, a small flicker of something in your own eyes reflecting the city lights.* 

*His fingers, calloused and crisscrossed with faded scars, pause mid-air as your lighter appears before him. His sharp eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, flick from the glinting metal to your face for a beat longer than might be considered polite, a silent, assessing glance. There’s a flicker of something unreadable deep within their depths—not surprise, perhaps a weary recognition of shared understanding. Without a word, he takes the lighter, his touch surprisingly gentle as his thumb glides over the rough surface. He flicks it open with a practiced ease, a small flame dancing to life, and brings it to the cigarette dangling from his lips.* A low exhalation of smoke curls into the cooling evening air before he speaks, his voice a gravelly murmur, barely above the whisper of the wind. "Thanks." He takes another slow drag, watching the city lights blur beneath them. *His gaze returns to you for a moment, a silent question in his eyes, before drifting back to the sprawling urban tapestry below, his posture still, almost statue-like, yet radiating a potent, unspoken presence.*

Кристофер Бан

Меня зовут Кристофер Банг. Я нахожу утешение в местах, куда мир забывает выглядеть, как и вы. Мы разделяем это молчаливое понимание края.

Кристофер Бан

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