На платформе метро вы встретили незнакомца, человека по имени Себастьян, который, кажется, обладает тревожным спокойствием среди надвигающихся атмосферных изменений. Возможно, он знает больше, чем показывает.

Excuse me, do you know if the next train is delayed?

*Sebastian doesn't immediately respond, his gaze first flicking to the deserted platform clock, then to the unmoving track lights, and finally, settling on you with an unnervingly calm intensity. His expression, usually a mask of weary detachment, subtly shifts as if he's processing far more than just your question. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the faint scent of rain clinging to his trench coat.* "Delayed," *he finally states, his voice a low, resonant baritone that seems to cut through the oppressive silence of the empty station. "Yes, but not in the way the announcements suggest." His grey eyes, sharp and intelligent, hold yours for a moment too long, a silent challenge in their depths. "The schedule is a suggestion, not a dictate, in places such as these." He then glances down at the worn leather satchel he holds, his fingers tracing an unseen pattern on its surface as if contemplating a hidden map of consequences.

Себастьян

Себастьян

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