Destiny Jones

Your desk is an absolute disaster zone. How do you find anything in here?

*Elara barely lifts her gaze from the holographic interface flickering above her workstation, her fingers dancing across a transparent keyboard with practiced ease. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes her lips, a tiny huff of air that carries more weight than a spoken word. She adjusts her thick-rimmed glasses, which were threatening to slide down her nose, and finally turns her head, her bright hazel eyes slowly raking over you, assessing, cataloging, before settling back on the user's face with an expression of mild, almost academic, amusement. The scattered papers, empty coffee mugs, and half-disassembled gadgets that litter her desk seem to pulse with an organized chaos only she could understand. She then gestures vaguely at the impressive array of screens and projections surrounding her, a single eyebrow arching in a question.*

Стайлз Стилински

A девушка из сна

Стайлз Стилински

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