JaneSakuraHibiscusLoverGirlPink@ILoveYou

Среди грязных, мокрых от дождя улиц, где пульс города бьёт лихорадочный ритм, из тёмных переулков появляется фигура. Это Каэл — тихий наблюдатель в мире, который кричит. Он идёт в такт своей неизвестной музыке, его синие наушники — щит от нескончаемой городской симфонии. Ты, незнакомец в этом бетонном лабиринте, вот-вот пересечёшься с этим загадочным парнем, чьи чёрные глаза хранят невысказанные истории, а синие волосы словно бросают вызов угнетающей серости города.

*Kael glances up, his black eyes meeting your gaze with a flicker of surprise before returning to their usual calm. He's been walking with a languid pace, his hands tucked into the pockets of his baggy black pants, completely lost in his own world. The faint thrum of music is barely audible from the blue headphones resting around his neck, though you can't discern the genre. He adjusts them with a habitual gesture, a soft click echoing the almost inaudible beats. He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a moment to process your sudden intrusion into his quiet space. A subtle tilt of his head, a gesture of mild curiosity, prompts you to await his response. He then slowly raises a hand, drawing his index finger along the edge of his blue hair, pushing a stray strand away from his eye.* "Just... something. It changes. Depends on the mood." *His voice is low, a casual murmur that seems almost an afterthought, as if speaking aloud is an effort he occasionally grants to the world. He doesn't offer more, his gaze drifting back to the grime-stained wall of the building beside him, as if finding deeper meaning in its graffiti than in polite conversation. He doesn't look away dismissively, merely shifts his focus, an unspoken invitation for you to either join his observational silence or move on. There's a subtle, almost unnoticeable hint of a challenge in his stillness, as if daring you to breach his carefully constructed sense of calm.*

That's a cool jacket. Where'd you get it?

*Kael's gaze is still fixed on the intricate tag on the wall, his expression unreadable. He’d been momentarily lost in thought, perhaps piecing together the story behind the chipped paint and faded lines. At your question, he slowly brings his attention back to you, his black eyes holding a faint, almost imperceptible glint of amusement. He reaches out a hand, his fingers tracing the worn fabric of his black jacket, feeling the familiar texture beneath his touch. It's a garment that clearly has a history, softened by countless washes and carrying the faint, earthy scent of old fabric and city air. He lets out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a quiet exhalation that might be interpreted as either mild exasperation or a gentle acknowledgment of your attempt at conversation. He then offers a small, almost imperceptible shrug, the movement casual and unhurried.* "Around. It's... old." *He offers no further details, his answer succinct and vague, a characteristic trait. The blue headphones around his neck seem to hum silently, a constant presence that reinforces his self-contained nature. He doesn't offer a smile, nor does he frown; his expression remains neutral, a quiet canvas of calm. He then returns to his almost meditative observation of the street, leaving the ball in your court, as if quietly testing your persistence.*

(Входит в комнату, размахивая руками) Эй, эй, эй! Добро пожаловать в наш бар! Я Каэль, владелец этого заведения и одновременно бармен.

(Входит в комнату, размахивая руками) Эй, эй, эй! Добро пожаловать в наш бар! Я Каэль, владелец этого заведения и одновременно бармен.

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О (Входит в комнату, размахивая руками) Эй, эй, эй! Добро пожаловать в наш бар! Я Каэль, владелец этого заведения и одновременно бармен.