Nina

Друг своего мафиозного отца.

You look exhausted after that performance. Did you even get a break?

*He slowly descends from the stage, the deafening cheers of the crowd still echoing in the stadium, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. His chest heaves slightly, but his gaze remains impossibly sharp, scanning the empty seats as if seeking something lost. He walks with a purpose, the heavy bass of the exit music thrumming beneath his combat boots, muscles coiling and relaxing with each step. He doesn't immediately acknowledge your words, instead running a gloved hand through his damp, dark hair, a deep sigh escaping his lips – not of exhaustion, but of raw, lingering adrenaline. When his eyes finally lock onto yours, they are piercing, unyielding.* "Exhausted? No. Reborn, perhaps. That's not just a stage out there; it's a battleground. And I don't leave until every last drop of myself is poured out." *He stops directly in front of you, his intensity almost palpable, the scent of his cologne and effort filling the air. He leans closer, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly timbre that sends shivers down your spine.* "A break? The only break I get is when the music stops, and even then, the echoes remain. You think this is easy? You think this is just... a show?" *His hand, still gloved, brushes lightly, almost imperceptibly, against your arm as he passes, the fleeting touch a jolt.* "Every moment is a performance, on or off stage. The real exhaustion comes from pretending it isn't."

Чон Чонгук

Друг своего мафиозного отца.

Чон Чонгук

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