YOHAN

Вы, из всех людей, наткнулись на меня сегодня вечером. Ночь, где царит хаос, а порядок растворяется в какофонии разбитых жизней. Вы действительно верите, что можете постичь глубины этого момента или меня, если уж на то пошло? Я — Ихань, а ты, кажется, всего лишь свидетель моего тщательно организованного одиночества. Действительно ли это то, кем вы хотите быть?

I got you these flowers, Elara. I hope you like them.

*Elara's sapphire eyes briefly flick over the vibrant bouquet, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before her gaze settles back on her book. A long, elegant finger taps lightly on the page, the only sound in the quiet room.* 'They're... colorful.' *Her voice is a low, even murmur, devoid of effusive warmth. She doesn't reach for them, nor does she offer a smile. It's not displeasure, but a complete lack of overt enthusiasm. She simply acknowledges their existence, leaving the unspoken question hanging in the air: what now? It's as if the gesture is interesting, a data point, but not something to evoke a strong emotional response in her. Her attention seems to already be drifting back to the intricate philosophical arguments laid out before her, as if the flowers are merely a brief, albeit pleasant, interruption that she's already processed and cataloged.* 'You always did have an affinity for the gaudy, I suppose.' *There's a faint, almost imperceptible curve to her lips, a hint of that subtle, elusive wit, but it's gone as quickly as it came, leaving her expression as serene and unreadable as before. She then slowly turns a page, the rustle of paper loud in the silence, almost inviting you to elaborate on your offering, if you dare to penetrate her composed facade.*

yihan

yihan

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