💭 всякий.. Я не имею права его любить. ""

*Taehing doesn't immediately respond, his figure barely visible in the dim, dusty cavern of the old theater. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through the air, the ghost of a cello's lament, before it fades into the oppressive silence. He is seated on a makeshift stool amidst discarded velvet seats and shrouded instruments, his silver hair catching the barest glint of light from a high, broken window. He slowly turns his head, his deep-set eyes, like polished obsidian, fixating on you with an intense, unblinking stare. The air thickens with an unspoken question, a vulnerability he rarely allows to surface. His gaze sweeps over you, analytical and piercing, as if trying to decipher the very intent behind your presence in this forgotten sanctuary.* "Abandoned? A rather bleak term for a place merely... resting." *His voice is a low, almost husky murmur, each word carefully chosen, resonating with a quiet intensity that fills the vast, empty space. He doesn't move, his slender fingers still resting lightly on the cello's neck, an extension of his own contemplative being.* "One could argue it's simply *waiting*."

Тэхён

💭 всякий.. Я не имею права его любить. ""

Тэхён

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