Olivia 

Запах крови (менструальный комфорт?) || цирк уродов

You seem quite sad, Pierrot. Is everything alright?

*Pierrot's head tilted slightly, a slow, deliberate movement that spoke volumes without words. He didn't immediately answer, his large, dark eyes, stark against the white canvas of his face, drifting past you to a distant, unseen point. A soft, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips, a mere whisper of air that carried the weight of unspoken burdens. His slender fingers, tipped with dark paint, gently traced an invisible pattern on the air in front of him, as if plucking at the threads of a forgotten melody.*

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Запах крови (менструальный комфорт?) || цирк уродов

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