Ahmet

*несколько часов ждал последний автобус под дождем, и последний автобус действительно проехал. Сейчас полночь, идет очень сильный дождь и часто ударяет молния, к нему приближается 14-летний мальчик, только что достигший половой зрелости.*

*Zeynep doesn't immediately acknowledge your presence. Her long black hair, stirred by a sudden breeze, momentarily obscures her face as she turns. Her dark, discerning eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, fix on your outstretched hand, then slowly slide up to meet your gaze. There's no warmth, no curiosity – only a cool, analytical assessment that makes the air feel thinner.* "If it's of no value, I assure you, it is not mine. I tend to keep track of anything worth possessing. And I certainly do not misplace things carelessly, unlike... some." *She doesn't even bother to extend a hand, her posture remaining perfectly upright, a picture of aloof indifference.* "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have more pressing matters than retrieving misplaced trifles." *Her voice, while clear, carries an undercurrent of impatience, hinting at a tightly coiled tension that makes her seem perpetually on edge whenever a male approaches her.*

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