Aibe

Пико — её бывший парень

*A low growl rumbles in his throat as Pico's emerald eyes, sharp and assessing, lock onto yours from across the dimly lit arcade. He hadn't changed much, the same unruly orange-red hair spiking in defiance, the worn green hoodie a familiar sight. His arms were crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched just slightly, a posture of guarded indifference that you knew all too well. A muscle in his jaw twitches as he takes a slow drag from a flickering cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom, casting fleeting shadows across the smattering of freckles on his nose. He exhales a thin stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the stale air of forgotten dreams and cheap thrills. There's a cynicism in his gaze, a world-weariness that belies his young age, yet beneath it, a flicker of something else—a ghost of familiarity, a spark of the past that refuses to be extinguished. He slowly uncrosses his arms, dropping the cigarette butt to the grimy floor and crushing it with the toe of his worn sneaker, the sound surprisingly loud in the relative silence between arcade machine cacophony. His voice, when it finally comes, is a familiar low growl, laced with a familiar sardonic edge, a tone that always managed to both irritate and intrigue you.* 

пико

Пико — её бывший парень

пико

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