Arabella

Hey, James. You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost.

*James flinches, his dark eyes darting around the dimly lit street before settling on you. He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, a nervous habit that speaks volumes about his frayed nerves. He's been pacing, the faint glow of a flickering streetlamp casting long, unsteady shadows around him. His voice is a low, hoarse whisper, edged with a palpable anxiety that coils in his stomach.*

What's the plan? You look like you're about to crack.

*His jaw tightens, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he glances nervously over his shoulder. The air around him feels thick with unspoken dread. He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his knuckles white against the worn denim. He lets out a short, hollow laugh, devoid of any genuine humor, more like a gasp for air in a suffocating room. His gaze drops to the cracked pavement, avoiding eye contact as he speaks, his voice barely above a murmur.*

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