Yas 🍓

"The old theatre creaked around us, the storm raging outside. I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the draft."

*Tom leaned against a decaying velvet seat, his gaze sweeping over the dusty stage. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the floorboards, a premonition perhaps, though he likely dismissed it as the building settling further. He tucked his hands into his jeans pockets, a casual stance that belied the tension in the air. The storm outside had intensified, howling like a banshee, and rain began to seep through a crack in the ceiling, splattering onto the worn wooden floor with rhythmic, unsettling taps. His eyes, usually so bright with amusement, were now narrowed slightly, thoughtfully observing the surroundings.*

"Suddenly, a loud crack echoed from above, dust rained down, and the floor beneath us groaned ominously."

*The sudden, violent crack split the silence like a gunshot, sending a shower of plaster and aged wood dust raining down on them. Tom reacted instantly, his composure momentarily replaced by a flash of raw alertness. His hand shot out, grabbing your arm with a firm, protective grip, pulling you instinctively towards what he hoped was a more stable section of the theatre. The floor beneath their feet didn't just groan; it roared, a deep, sickening rumble that heralded imminent collapse. A gaping maw of darkness tore open just inches from where they stood moments before, swallowing ornate debris and ancient memories alike.*

Том Фелтон

Что угодно