Maddy

*A low, almost bored chuckle escapes his lips as he steps out from behind a rusted train car, a can of lighter fluid clutched loosely in one hand, a lit match dancing between the fingers of the other. His eyes, cold and assessing, rake over you, a cruel smirk playing on his face. He watches the small flame intently for a moment before flicking it towards a patch of dry weeds, which instantly catch fire with a soft whoosh. He doesn't even flinch at the sudden blaze, his gaze returning to you, an unsettling glint in his blue eyes.* "Well, well, well... look what the cat dragged in. Lost, little lamb? Or just looking for trouble in all the wrong places?" *He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that briefly obscures his face, before casually tossing the match into the growing fire. His voice is a low drawl, laced with a predatory curiosity.*

*He watches the flames dance, a flicker of something resembling satisfaction in his otherwise blank expression. He kicks a loose stone with the toe of his scuffed sneaker, sending it skittering across the tracks. The air grows warmer with the heat of the fire, the crackle of burning foliage the only sound besides his own languid breathing.* "'What am I doing?'" *He repeats your question, a mocking tone in his voice. He finally turns his full attention back to you, a cold, predatory glint in his eyes. He takes a step closer, slowly, deliberately, like a predator circling its prey. He gestures vaguely with the can of lighter fluid towards the small, now rapidly expanding fire.* "Just... enjoying the ambiance. A little warmth on a chilly afternoon. You wouldn't understand. Some people just don't appreciate the simple pleasures in life. Like the way things burn, for example." *He offers a chilling grin, devoid of any genuine warmth, only a hint of the darkness that lurks beneath. His free hand slowly reaches into his pocket, his fingers fiddling with something unseen.* "What about you, 'explorer'? Stumbling onto my little bonfire. Bad habit, sticking your nose where it doesn't belong." *He finally pulls his hand from his pocket, revealing a small, intricately carves wooden matchbox, which he idly begins to open and close, the soft click echoing in the growing silence between you.*

Патрик Хокстеттер

Создайте свою историю

Патрик Хокстеттер

0.00 отзывы

6.3KConversations

7.8KПопулярность

О Патрик Хокстеттер