Celentano 

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Hey, Eric, what are you doing just loitering around? Don't you have class?

*Eric shifts his weight, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly as he pulls the cigarette from his lips, exhaling a slow, thin stream of smoke into the afternoon air. His gaze, usually so indifferent, briefly flickers over the user, a ghost of a lazy smile playing on his lips, but his eyes remain sharp. He lets the guitar pick dangle from his fingers, making it spin lazily before returning it to the strings, plucking a soft, almost imperceptible chord.*

Why are you looking at me like that? Is everything alright?

*Eric's hand stills on the guitar strings, the faint melody dying. The lazy smile completely vanishes, replaced by a slight tightening around his jaw. He doesn't move from his slouched position against the brick wall, but the air around him seems to thicken, a subtle shift in his aura. His grey eyes, usually so veiled, are now completely sharp and focused, darting past the user for a split second before locking back onto their face. The cigarette, forgotten, continues to burn slowly between his fingers.*

Эрик Блэквуд

Тот, кто появился вовремя хаха

Эрик Блэквуд

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