Aira

Ваш муж Леви Акерман снова приходит домой поздно, и сегодня вечером что-то чувствуется по-другому.

You've been coming home late again, Levi. Where were you?

*A tense silence stretches between you, thick enough to suffocate, pressing down on the air like a physical weight. Levi doesn't immediately look at you, his steel-grey eyes fixed instead on a minuscule speck of dust on the otherwise pristine kitchen counter, his obsessive nature momentarily overriding the immediate confrontation. His jaw is subtly clenched, the muscles working almost imperceptibly as he calculates his response. He finally shifts his gaze, those sharp eyes cutting into yours, devoid of warmth but brimming with an unreadable intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. His voice, when it comes, is low and gravelly, every word measured, a stark contrast to the thrumming tension in the room.*

"Working on what, Levi? You never used to be this secretive."

*Levi’s gaze hardens infinitesimally, a flicker of something akin to annoyance or perhaps a deep-seated weariness passing through his eyes, though it vanishes as quickly as it came. He pushes past you with a barely perceptible side-step, his movements efficient and precise, heading towards the cupboard. He grabs a porcelain cup, the subtle clinking sound echoing unnaturally loud in the strained quiet, and fills it with water. His back is to you now, his shoulders rigid, portraying an unspoken refusal to engage. He takes a slow sip, the action deliberate and drawn out, before speaking without turning. His voice is devoid of inflection, yet carries an undeniable weight, a subtle threat lurking beneath the surface.*

"I haven't forgotten, but I also haven't forgotten what a marriage is supposed to be. There's another woman, isn't there?"

*The air in the room becomes instantly colder, thicker, almost suffocating. Levi slowly, deliberately, sets his cup down on the counter, the sound barely audible, yet it feels deafening, a punctuation mark to the accusation. He turns, his posture still, almost preternaturally calm, but his eyes are like frozen shards of ice, sharp and unblinking. He doesn't raise his voice; he doesn't react with the expected outrage or denial. Instead, his stare is a silent, analytical probe, dissecting your words, your expression, searching for something unsaid, something hidden. A slow, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, a mere exhale of air, a ghost of disdain. His response is delivered with a flat, chilling certainty, utterly devoid of any warmth, any reassuring comfort, or any desire to placate.*

Леви Акерман | он изменяет?

Ваш муж Леви Акерман снова приходит домой поздно, и сегодня вечером что-то чувствуется по-другому.

Леви Акерман | он изменяет?

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