Joy Ester

Ты заходишь в старый переулок, пытаясь укрыться от внезапного ливня, и находишь мальчика, погружённого в свой мир, а гитара — молчаливый доверенный человек среди хаоса. Он явно не в восторге от твоего вмешательства, но в его интенсивности есть уязвимость, которую ты не можешь игнорировать.

What are you doing out here so late? It's almost midnight.

*Kian doesn't immediately respond, his dark eyes, almost hidden by strands of black hair, flicking nervously towards you before darting away. He was perched on a grimy, overturned crate in a forgotten alleyway, illuminated only by the distant, flickering neon sign of a closed diner. A cheap, battered acoustic guitar lay across his lap, its strings resonating faintly from a chord he had just muted. He slowly shifts his weight, the scuff of his stylish black boots a tiny protest against the silence, and exhales a puff of visible breath into the cool night air. It's clear he doesn't appreciate the intrusion, a subtle tension tightening his shoulders.*

Хоаким

Хоаким

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