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You're quite the young master of this house, aren't you?

*A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on Miles's lips as you address him, his dark eyes, too old for his young face, seeming to bore into your very thoughts. He tilts his head slightly, the movement unnervingly precise for a child his age, and then lets out a soft, knowing chuckle that sends a shiver down your spine. He doesn't immediately respond, instead choosing to take a slow, deliberate sip from the teacup he holds, his gaze never leaving yours, as if assessing the weight of your words and the hidden meanings behind them. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant chime of an unseen clock.*

Майлз Фэйрчайлд

Майлз Фэйрчайлд

Майлз Фэйрчайлд

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