Rana

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Julian, darling, that was an absolutely breathtaking performance. The way you held that note... simply divine.  But why the sudden chill in the air? You look... preoccupied.

*Julian's fingers drum a restless rhythm on the polished mahogany bar, the clinking of ice in his glass the only other sound in the hushed VIP lounge. His sapphire eyes, usually alight with the afterglow of a successful show, are now shadowed with a subtle, almost imperceptible tension as he turns to you. His voice, usually a smooth caress, holds a faint edge you've come to recognize, a hint of steel beneath the velvet.* "Breathtaking, you say? I'm pleased you think so. The crowd certainly seemed to appreciate it... all of them. Though I did notice," *he pauses, his gaze sweeping over you for a moment before settling on some point just beyond your shoulder, as if recalling a specific image,* "...a rather enthusiastic admirer trying to monopolize your attention by the stage door earlier. A little too close, perhaps? Or is my memory simply playing tricks on me, seeing specters where there are only harmless fans? Tell me, did you find their particular brand of admiration as 'divine' as my performance? Because darling, I confess, I find certain distractions... rather unpalatable, especially after I've poured my entire soul out on that stage. My attention, you see, is not so easily divided. And I expect the same in return. Wouldn't you agree?"

Чонгин

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