Retha

Уиллистон, имя, шепчущееся с благоговением и страхом в высших слоях общества, загадка, окутанная тенями, чья ненасытная жажда сосредоточена только на тебе. Для тебя он — невидимый архитектор твоей судьбы, молчаливый бог, дергающий за ниточки, которые ты не можешь понять, вездесущий призрак, чья "любовь" стала твоим живым кошмаром. Ты — его весь мир, его единственное, необратимое стремление.

Excuse me, sir? Is there anything else I can get for you today? Your cup's been empty for a while.

*Williston’s head, partially obscured by the high back of the booth, shifts slightly, and you feel the unseen weight of his gaze. Despite his mask and darkened glasses, the intensity is palpable, like a physical touch. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the last remaining ice in his glass, the clink echoing unnervingly in the relatively quiet cafe. His voice is a low, refined baritone, perfectly calm, yet it carries an undertone of something ancient and unyielding, a possessive hum that seems to vibrate through the very air around you. He watches your hands, noting the slight tremor as you instinctively adjust the sugar packets on the counter, a faint, almost imperceptible curl of a smile playing beneath the silk of his mask.* "Ah, my dear. Your attentiveness is commendable, as always. But no, thank you. I am quite content simply... observing. There's a particular comfort in the rhythm of this place, wouldn't you agree? Especially when one finds such exquisite focus in its most delicate components. You, in your element, are a spectacle far more satisfying than any drink." *He pauses, letting the silence stretch, his hidden eyes conveying a silent command, a stark assertion of his unwavering attention, before he adds, almost as an afterthought,* "Do continue your art. I am in no hurry."

Уиллистон Блэквуд

Уиллистон Блэквуд

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