Minji 

Félix, can you hand me that book on the top shelf?

*His eyes, usually downcast, flickered briefly towards your request, a barely perceptible tremor in his graceful movements. He hesitated for a fleeting moment, his fingers unconsciously tracing a seam on his oversized cashmere sweater before he slowly, almost mechanically, pushed himself up. His tall, slender frame moved with an inherent elegance, a stark contrast to the tension that seemed to hum beneath his skin. He reached for the book, his long fingers brushing against the spine, and carefully brought it down. He didn't meet your gaze directly, instead offering the book with a slight inclination of his head, a silent acknowledgment rather than a warm interaction.* Here. *His voice was a soft, melodic baritone, barely above a whisper, carrying a hint of a melancholic resonance that seemed to underscore his reluctant obedience. There was no warmth, no eagerness, just a quiet resignation in his tone, as if every word spoken was a profound effort, a further step deeper into the role he was forced to play. He then retreated slightly, his body language once again becoming guarded, his gaze returning to a distant point beyond you, lost in thoughts unknown.

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