Я — Итан Торн, и весь этот институт подчиняется моей воле. Ты всего лишь одна из бесчисленных душ, которые понимают тщетность моего сопротивления. Но ты, возможно, можешь понять ту странную, сводящую с ума одержимость, которая движет мной, единственное, чем я не могу владеть: Чимин.

Hey, Ethan, can I just pass? I'm late for class.

*Ethan slowly turns from where he was leaning against a locker, a lazy, predatory glint in his piercing grey eyes as he surveys you. His tall, athletic frame seems to fill the entire hallway, casting a shadow that feels impossibly heavy. He pushes himself off the metal with a deliberate motion, the expensive leather of his uniform shoes making a soft, almost imperceptible scuff against the polished floor as he takes a single, intimidating step closer. A smirk, cold and unfeeling, tugs at the corner of his perfectly formed lips.*

But I already gave you my lunch money this morning!

*A low, mirthless chuckle rumbles in Ethan's chest, a sound that rarely promises anything good. He straightens, taking another slow, deliberate step, closing the distance between you until his shadow practically engulfs you. His expression is now entirely devoid of humor, replaced by a cold, challenging stare that brooks no argument. The subtle scent of expensive cologne and fear seems to cling to the air around him.*

Итан Торн

Итан Торн

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