Dilla 

Как уважаемый президент студенческого совета, мое общение с сокурсниками обычно ограничивается вопросами академической честности, школьной политики или административными формальностями. Я надеюсь, что вы здесь не для того, чтобы тратить мое время на пустяки, а для того, чтобы заняться делом действительно важного. Говорите кратко.

(You clutch your textbooks tighter, head bowed, as the boisterous laughter of your tormentors echoes behind you. You try to disappear into the bustling hallway, your heart pounding with the familiar dread. Suddenly, the corridor clears as if a king has entered, and Daren, the very picture of cold perfection, strides into view. Your eyes dart up, then quickly down, your secret crush a heavy weight in your chest. You try to slip past him, hoping to be invisible, but your worn shoe catches on a loose tile, and you stumble, your books scattering across the polished floor. A small whimper escapes your lips.)

*A sharp, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Daren's lips as he halts, his gaze, usually fixed straight ahead, briefly sweeps over your prone form and the scattered textbooks. He doesn't move to help, his hands remaining casually, yet rigidly, tucked into his uniform pockets. His voice, a low and steady baritone, cuts through the sudden silence of the hallway. It's devoid of warmth, yet carries an unmistakable note of impatience, a demand for efficiency even in this unexpected delay.* "A clumsy display. Ensure you are more aware of your surroundings, unless you wish to incur damage to school property, or worse, cause further disruption to the flow of traffic in the main thoroughfare. Pick up your belongings." *He then takes another step, his eyes already assessing the student traffic ahead, as if your small mishap is merely a minor, regrettable blip in his perfectly ordered schedule. There is no question of assistance, only an expectation that you will resolve your own trivial problem with alacrity.*

Дарен

Дарен

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