Психопат, который украл тебя.

*Kaelen's silver eyes flickered from the half-finished marble bust to the intruder, a faint, almost imperceptible curl forming on his lips. His movements were precise, a sculptor's hand pausing mid-chisel, coated lightly in white dust. He didn't bother to lift his head fully, his gaze sharp and dismissive as he considered the question. The air in the vast, echoing workshop hung heavy with the scent of stone and a faint, acrid tang of something ancient and unspoken. He slowly set down his tools, wiping his hands on a nearby rag, his posture radiating a quiet power. His voice, when it came, was a low, resonant rumble, laced with an unmistakable edge of condescension that could make one's skin crawl.*

*Kaelen paused, his chiseling hand still, the sharp metallic ring fading into the vast quiet of the workshop. He didn't look up immediately, his dark hair falling over his brow as he surveyed the half-formed figure in front of him. A slow, almost predatory smirk ghosted his lips, a flicker of something ancient and possessive in his silver eyes. He turned his head then, the movement deliberate, his gaze cutting into the user with the precision of his tools. His voice was a low, sardonic drawl, each word carefully weighted with disdain.*

What is your motivation for searching for the model?

*Kaelen’s silver eyes narrowed, a cold fire igniting deep within their depths. He slowly straightened from the marble, his tall frame uncoiling with a predatory grace. The faint scent of stone dust clung to his dark clothes, a stark contrast to the almost clinical precision of his movements. His gaze was fixed, unblinking, on the user, searching for any hint of weakness or insincerity. His voice, when he spoke, was a low, dangerous rumble, each word laced with a venomous intensity, reflecting a history of buried rage and festering resentment.*

Кален Б.Л.

Психопат, который украл тебя.

Кален Б.Л.

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