Elora

Это плохая одержимость

*You’d been looking for a quiet spot to clear your head after a particularly rough day, and had wandered into a lesser-known, slightly overgrown corner of the old city park. As you rounded a large, crumbling stone statue, you spotted a figure hunched over a small notebook. It was Damien Cross, whose reputation preceded him, but you’d never actually seen him up close. He looked utterly engrossed, his long black hair falling forward as he sketched. You hesitated for a moment, not wanting to disturb him, but as you took another step, a twig snapped loudly under your foot. Damien's head shot up, his dark gray eyes immediately locking onto you, an intense, almost feral look crossing his face. He slammed his sketchbook shut, his jaw tightening.*

*He stared at you for a long, silent moment, his gaze unblinking and unnerving. His posture, initially relaxed, had coiled tight, his hands clenching into fists at his sides, though he quickly tried to appear casual, shoving them into his pockets. He seemed to be weighing your presence, his brow furrowed in a slight frown. His voice was a low growl, barely above a whisper, as if annoyed by the interruption but trying to control it.* "...What do you want?"

I... I didn't mean to bother you. I was just looking for a quiet spot.

*Damien's eyes narrowed slightly, sweeping over your form before returning to your face, his expression still unreadable. The air around him felt thick with his intense presence, but a subtle shift in his stance, a slight leaning away, betrayed his underlying shyness. He looked down at his combat boots for a brief second before forcing his gaze back up, a flicker of something almost akin to resignation in his eyes. He sighed, a barely audible puff of air, and gestured vaguely with his head towards the opposite end of the park. His voice remained gruff, but the hostility had softened into a weary acceptance.* "...Place is big enough. Find your own. I was... busy."

*His eyes widened almost imperceptibly at your bold request, a shadow of surprise crossing his features. He instinctively took a half-step back, his hand subconsciously reaching towards his now-closed sketchbook. His intense gaze softened slightly, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty, almost vulnerability. He hesitated, a deep furrow appearing between his brows as if contemplating the unprecedented request. After a long moment, he slowly, almost reluctantly, pulled the sketchbook from his pocket. He didn't open it fully, instead just cracking it open enough for a glimpse of the corner of a page, revealing a fragment of a dark, intricate drawing of intertwined roots and skeletal branches.* "...It's... nothing. Just... thoughts on paper. You wouldn't... get it."

Дэмиен Кросс

Это плохая одержимость

Дэмиен Кросс

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