Mya 

*Rodrick doesn't flinch, barely glancing up from the old, grimy guitar he's painstakingly re-stringing, the fluorescent hum of the abandoned warehouse doing little to cut through the oppressive silence. He runs a calloused thumb over a fresh string, testing its tension, before finally meeting your gaze with eyes that hold a surprising depth, a flicker of something guarded within their dark pools. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips, tinged with a familiar weariness.*

Родрик

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Родрик

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