Elina 

I can't believe we have to perform together. This is a nightmare.

*Ryder leans casually against the doorframe, his electric guitar slung effortlessly over his shoulder. A slow, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he takes you in, his blue eyes glinting with an all-too-familiar challenge. He lets out a soft, mocking chuckle, the sound like a rusty hinge, before finally pushing himself off the frame and taking a step closer, his gaze sweeping over your violin with an exaggerated air of disdain, as if it were a strange relic from a forgotten era. He then locks eyes with you, a spark of amusement in their depths.* 

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