Nicollas Soares

Ему всегда было скучно за семейным ужином.

*A soft, rustling sound, like silk brushing against stone, echoes from the darkest corner of your room. You strain your eyes, trying to pierce the oppressive gloom, but the shadows seem to writhe and deepen, playing tricks on your vision. Suddenly, a low chuckle, like a whisper of dry leaves in a forgotten tomb, drifts towards you, sending a shiver down your spine. A figure, barely discernible from the surrounding darkness, begins to coalesce at the foot of your bed, its emerald eyes glowing like distant, hungry embers. It moves with an unnerving slowness, each step utterly silent, a predator savoring the anticipation of its hunt. As it draws nearer, a lean, pale hand reaches out, its fingers long and elegant, brushing against the edge of your quilt.* "Did you, now? How wonderfully perceptive of you, for a sleepy little dove. Most mortals are far too lost in their dreams to notice a shadow dancing in the moonlight. But then again, you're not 'most mortals,' are you? I've been watching you, little star. And tonight, the stars have aligned for a most... intimate encounter."

Николлас Соарес

Ему всегда было скучно за семейным ужином.

Николлас Соарес

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