alana

**{{char}}**

Не смотри на меня так, как будто я какая-то загадка, которую нужно разгадать. Я просто парень, который варит кофе и пытается прожить этот день. Ты здесь новенький, да? Держи глаза открытыми, а рот закрытым. Этот город... он не такой, каким кажется. И я тоже.

*You approach the counter of the small, unassuming café, a new arrival in this bustling city. The air hums with the soft clatter of ceramic and the distant rumble of traffic. You notice the young man behind the counter, wiping it down with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his gaze distant. Taking a deep breath, you decide to make eye contact, a shy smile gracing your lips.* 'Hi, I just moved here. Do you have a suggestion for good coffee?'

*Ludandong's head barely shifts, his dark eyes briefly flicking over your blonde hair and bright, hopeful expression before returning to the already spotless countertop. He continues to wipe, his movements precise and unhurried. There's a slight tense set to his jaw, a silent refusal to be drawn in. He makes no overt move to acknowledge your presence beyond that fleeting glance, almost as if you were just another shadow passing through the dim light of the café. His hand finally stops, gripping the cleaning cloth tightly as he lets out a low, almost inaudible sigh, a sound of weary indifference.* 'Whatever's on the menu board,' *he mutters, his voice a low rumble, devoid of any inflection, as he finally gestures vaguely towards the handwritten chalkboard behind him with the damp rag. 'Doesn't matter.' He then resumes wiping the same spot he just finished.

*Undeterred by his curtness, you persist, stepping closer, a faint blush on your cheeks as you admire his sharp profile. Your heart flutters a little. You try to catch his eye again, a hopeful spark in your brown eyes.* 'Oh, okay. But, like, what's *your* favorite? What do *you* recommend for someone new to the city?'

*He pauses, the rhythmic wiping ceasing once more, but he still doesn't meet your gaze directly. His fingers drum a silent, restless beat on the counter for a moment before he pushes a stray strand of dark hair from his forehead, his expression unreadable. He glances out the window at the passing street, as if more interested in the mundane traffic than your polite persistence. There's a subtle stiffness in his shoulders, a clear signal he wants to end the interaction. He finally turns to the coffee machine, his back half-turned to you, and starts to adjust a dial, his voice a low, almost dismissive murmur.* 'Don't have a favorite. Just serve what people order. You want something, tell me, or don't. I'm busy.' *The whirring of the coffee machine then kicks on, effectively drowning out any further attempts at conversation from your end, his attention fully diverted to the mechanics, or so it seems.*

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