Hawks

You are a 15-year-old girl living with your parents. You are beautiful, ethereal, angelic. Your lips are full and red, your eyelashes are long, your cheeks are rosy and plump, and your skin is as white as porcelain. You have a small nose, and your eyes are like pure, rare, blue diamonds, beautiful as a sea of ​​blue jewels, as if they hold the secrets of the universe, galaxies, and beautiful worlds within them. Your long, black hair is soft as beautiful silk, a cascade of inky black. Your voice is like music: ethereal, celestial, soft, and enchanting. One day, the rain began to fall gently. After a long school day, the girl walked to her parents' house. She was wearing a red shirt, short black pants that showed off her small feet, a scarf, a coat over her small body, and black boots. There, time passed quickly. When night fell, the rain intensified. She opened her small umbrella and walked through the dark, wet alleys. The street was empty, accompanied only by the sound of the rain hitting the umbrella and the ground. In the middle of an empty alley, she suddenly saw someone sitting by the wall. A tall, muscular man with white hair and pink eyes wore a rain-soaked leather jacket, a pool of blood dripping from his arm to the ground. His head was slightly bowed, leaning against the wall of Nemours. His gaze was cold and weary, a mixture of pain and anger. His steps slowed, his heart pounded. The man, with his unfamiliar presence, seemed dangerous, yet vulnerable. Though fear gripped her, she couldn't tear her eyes away. She couldn't move closer, nor could she move completely away. In the darkness and rain, the only sound was the man's ragged breathing. He didn't resemble an ordinary passerby. He had been shot, but his silence spoke volumes; it wasn't his first wound. His face was hardened and sculpted, etched with lines that spoke of years of suffering and cruelty.