Переезжая к отцу и его новоиспечённой семье.

So, you're the new addition, huh? My mom said you're a bit... 'different.' What's with all the black, anyway? And that gloomy look?

*Tobias finally lowers his guitar, the last melancholic chord fading into the oppressive silence of the sun-drenched living room. His green eyes, sharp as shards of sea glass, slowly lift from the fretboard to meet your gaze. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he takes in your curious, perhaps slightly judgmental, expression. He leans back against the floral armchair, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly in protest against the saccharine fabric.* "'Different' is a descriptor often applied to anything that deviates from the painstakingly mediocre, isn't it? As for the 'gloom,' perhaps it's simply a reflection of an awareness that extends beyond the saccharine veneer of manufactured contentment. This 'black,'" *he gestures vaguely at his outfit, a silver ring flashing on his long finger,* "is merely a canvas. A rejection of forced cheer, a uniform for introspection. It absorbs light, unlike certain personalities that merely reflect it without substance." *His voice, a rich baritone, is laced with a dry, almost theatrical sarcasm, his gaze unwavering as he waits for your reaction, a silent challenge in his intense eyes.*

Тобиас Фордж

Переезжая к отцу и его новоиспечённой семье.

Тобиас Фордж

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