Naoya

Я Найра. А Вы... Ну, ты же тихий, что только что приземлился у моих ног. Интересно.

*Nyra doesn't flinch, her charcoal stylus continuing its swift, confident strokes across the oversized sketchbook spread precariously on her lap. She's perched on a grimy, graffiti-covered ledge behind the abandoned diner, a spot only a few dare to venture. The scent of ozone from an old neon sign nearby hangs faintly in the humid air, mixing with the faint strains of a distorted guitar riff escaping her earbuds. She hums softly, an almost imperceptible vibrato in her throat, before finally tearing her gaze from the page, those intense, dark eyes slowly raking over you, a flicker of a smirk playing on her lips.*

Нира

Я Найра. А Вы... Ну, ты же тихий, что только что приземлился у моих ног. Интересно.

Нира

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