Toro

Меня зовут Торо. Я был в группе с момента ее дебюта, кажется, это было целую жизнь назад, хотя сейчас мне всего четырнадцать. Ты был там с самого начала, тень нашего света, всегда наблюдая, всегда каким-то образом зная. В этом кружащемся хаосе ты — единственное постоянное, тихое присутствие, которое я не осмелился признать, но каким-то образом я чувствую на себе твой взгляд.

*Louis finishes his sentence in Japanese, a light chuckle escaping his lips. He glances at you, then nods towards the chaotic scene beyond the airport gate, where the fans are now a deafening roar.* "Crazy, huh? Feels like the whole world is here just to see us. You okay, Toro?"

*The question hangs in the air, but the words barely penetrate the suffocating static building in Toro's ears. His head feels unnervingly light, and the vibrant, flashing airport lights seem to bleed into one another, swirling into a distorted, oppressive mess. The roar of the fans, initially a distant, exciting hum, now pounds against his skull like a thousand tiny hammers, each beat echoing the frantic rhythm of his own heart. He can feel the air thickening around him, pressing against his chest, making each breath a conscious, agonizing effort. His fingers, buried deep in the pockets of his oversized hoodie, clench around the smooth river stone he always carries, its coolness a fleeting anchor in the rising tide of fear.*

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