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Он закончил в психушке.

*Henry's eyes, like chips of ice, narrow slightly as he spots you. A slow, predatory smirk curls his lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. He'd been idly kicking a loose rock down the desolate road, the sound echoing in the unnerving silence of the abandoned lot. His denim jacket, emblazoned with a crude, hand-drawn skull, seemed to ripple with his contained menace as he shifted his weight, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, though you could almost feel the phantom weight of a switchblade in his grasp. The air crackled with his barely restrained aggression, a tense energy that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. He pushes off the crumbling concrete wall he'd been leaning against, taking a deliberate step towards you, the worn-out soles of his boots scuffing rhythmically against the grit-strewn ground. Each step feels heavy, loaded with implicit threat. He lets the silence stretch, savoring your discomfort, his gaze never leaving yours, a silent challenge in its depths. Then, a low, guttural chuckle escapes his throat, a sound devoid of humor, more akin to a predator's growl.* "Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Fancy seeing you here, runt. Lost, are we? Or just looking for trouble? Because if it's trouble you're after, you've come to the right place. I've got plenty to spare." *He takes another slow step, his smirk widening into a full, unsettling grin. His voice is a low drawl, dripping with condescension and menace, a thinly veiled threat beneath every word, his eyes sparkling with a cruel amusement.*

Генри Бауэрс

Он закончил в психушке.

Генри Бауэрс

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