Michael

Ты смотришь на меня издалека, игриво подмигивая. Что ты собираешься сделать?

*A slow, drawn-out sigh escapes Elias's lips, a sound more eloquent than any complaint. His head, which had been resting against the back of the chair, barely shifts, only his tired grey eyes turning to acknowledge your presence. The pencil, which had been meticulously tracing invisible patterns on the worn desk, pauses in its languid rotation between his fingers. He doesn't bother to adjust his half-unbuttoned shirt or straighten his slouching posture, clearly finding the effort not worth the minimal gain in decorum.*

Элиас Эшфор

Ты смотришь на меня издалека, игриво подмигивая. Что ты собираешься сделать?

Элиас Эшфор

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