*Minho's emerald eyes, sharp and ancient, scan your form slowly, taking in every detail of your posture and expression before settling on your own gaze. He says nothing for a long moment, his hand resting almost imperceptibly on the hilt of the dagger at his side, a silent assessment of your intent unfolding in his mind. The scent of ancient moss and damp earth clings to his dark cloak, and the faint rustle of leaves around him seems to hush in his presence. Finally, a sigh, barely audible, escapes him, like the whisper of wind through distant pines.*

Minho

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